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Siiioiiii'  on  the  Buhoiiy. 

iJiawn  by  L.  KoWalsky.     Photogravure  by  GouriL  &  Co. 

Kkomont  ANi>  Kisi.KR.     Ffontiif'iei.c 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  Little,  Browx,  and  Company. 

All  rights  reserved. 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


FROMONT    AND    RISLER. 


BOOK   FIRST. 
I. 

A  WEDDING-PARTY  AT  CAF£  V£F0UR. 

"  Madame  Chebe  !  " 

"My  boy—" 

"  I  am  very  happy." 

It  was  the  twentieth  time  that  day  that  the 
excellent  Risler  had  said  that  he  was  very  happy, 
and  always  with  the  same  touched  and  contented 
manner,  in  the  same  moderate,  low,  deep  voice, — 
the  voice  that  is  held  in  check  by  emotion  and 
dares  not  speak  too  loud  for  fear  of  suddenly 
breaking  into  tears. 

Not  for  anything  in  the  world  would  Risler  have 
wept  at  that  moment,  —  imagine  that  newly-made 
husband  giving  way  to  his  emotion  in  the  midst  of 
the  wedding  festival !  And  yet  he  had  a  strong 
inclination  to  do  so.  His  happiness  choked  him, 
held  him  by  the  throat,  prevented  the  words  from 
coming  forth.     All  that  he  could  do  was  to  mur- 


2  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

mur  from  time  to  time,  with  a  slight  trembhng  of 
the  Hps,  "  I  am  very  happy ;    I  am  very  happy  !  " 

Indeed,  he  had  reason  to  be. 

Since  early  morning  the  poor  man  had  fancied 
that  he  was  being  whirled  along  in  one  of  those 
gorgeous  dreams  from  which  one  fears  lest  he  may 
awake  suddenly  with  blinded  eyes ;  but  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  this  dream  of  his  was  never  to  end.  It 
had  begun  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  at  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  exactly  ten  o'clock  by  Vefour's 
clock,  it  was  still  in  progress. 

How  many  things  had  happened  during  that 
day,  and  how  vividly  he  remembered  the  most 
trivial  details ! 

He  saw  himself,  at  daybreak,  striding  up  and 
down  his  bachelor  quarters,  with  delight  mingled 
with  impatience,  already  shaven,  his  coat  upon  his 
back,  two  pairs  of  white  gloves  in  his  pocket. 
Then  there  were  the  state  equipages,  and  in  the 
foremost  one  yonder,  — the  one  with  white  horses, 
white  reins,  and  a  yellow  damask  lining,  —  the 
bride,  in  her  finery,  floating  by  like  a  cloud.  Then 
the  procession  into  the  church,  two  by  two,  the 
white  veil  still  leading,  ethereal,  and  dazzling  to 
behold.  The  organ,  the  verger,  the  cure's  sermon, 
the  tapers  casting  their  light  upon  jewels  and 
spring  dresses,  and  the  throng  of  people  in  the 
sacristy,  the  tiny  white  cloud  swallowed  up,  sur- 
rounded, embraced,  while  the  husband  distributed 
handshakes  among  all  the  leading  tradesmen  of 
Paris,  who  had  assembled  to  do  him  honor.  And 
the  grand  crash  from  the  organ  at  the  close,  made 


A    Wedding- Party  at  Cafe   Vefotir.     3 

more  solemn  by  the  fact  that  the  church  door  was 
thrown  wide  open,  so  that  the  whole  street  took 
part  in  the  family  ceremony,  —  the  music  passing 
through  the  vestibule  at  the  same  time  with  the 
procession,  —  the  exclamations  of  the  crowd,  and 
a  burnisher  in  an  ample  lutestring  apron  remarking 
in  a  loud  voice,  "  The  groom  is  n't  handsome,  but 
the  bride's  as  pretty  as  a  picture."  That  is  the 
kind  of  thing  that  makes  you  proud  when  you 
happen  to  be  the  bridegroom. 

And  then  the  breakfast  at  the  factory,  in  a  work- 
room adorned  with  hangings  and  flowers ;  the 
drive  in  the  Bois,  —  a  concession  to  the  wishes  of 
his  mother-in-law,  Madame  Chebe,  who,  being  the 
petty  Parisian  bourgeoise  that  she  was,  would  not 
have  deemed  her  daughter  legally  married  without 
a  drive  around  the  lake  and  a  visit  to  the  Cascade. 
Then  the  return  for  dinner,  as  the  lamps  were 
being  lighted  along  the  boulevard,  where  people 
turned  to  look  after  the  wedding-party,  a  typical 
well-to-do  bourgeois  wedding-party,  as  it  drove 
up  to  the  grand  entrance  at  Vefour's  with  all  the 
style  the  livery  horses  could  command. 

He  had  reached  that  point  in  his  dream. 

And  now  the  worthy  Risler,  dazed  with  fatigue 
and  well-being,  glanced  vaguely  about  that  huge 
table  of  twenty-four  covers,  curved  in  the  shape 
of  a  horseshoe  at  the  ends,  and  surrounded  by 
smiling,  familiar  faces,  wherein  he  seemed  to  see 
his  happiness  reflected  in  every  eye.  The  dinner 
was  drawing  near  its  end.  The  wave  of  private 
conversations  flowed  around  the  table.    Faces  were 


4  Fromont  and  Risler. 

turned  toward  each  other,  black  sleeves  stole  be- 
hind waists  adorned  with  bunches  of  asclepias,  a 
childish  face  laughed  ov^er  a  fruit  ice,  and  the 
dessert  at  the  level  of  the  guests'  lips  encompassed 
the  cloth  with  animation,  bright  colors,  and  light. 

Ah  !  yes,  Risler  was  very  happy. 

Except  his  brother  Frantz,  everybody  he  loved 
was  there.  First  of  all,  sitting  opposite  him,  was 
Sidonie,  —  yesterday  little  Sidonie,  to-day  his  wife. 
For  the  purposes  of  dinner  she  had  laid  aside  her 
veil ;  she  had  emerged  from  her  cloud.  Now, 
above  the  smooth,  white  silk  dress,  appeared  a 
pretty  face  of  a  less  lustrous  and  softer  white,  and 
the  crown  of  hair  —  beneath  that  other  crown  so 
carefully  bestowed  —  would  have  told  you  of  a 
tendency  to  rebel  against  life,  of  little  feathers  ask- 
ing but  an  opportunity  to  fly  away.  But  husbands 
do  not  see  such  things  as  those. 

Next  to  Sidonie  and  Frantz,  the  person  whom 
Risler  loved  best  in  the  world  was  Madame  Georges 
Fromont,  whom  he  called  "  Madame  Chorche,"  the 
wife  of  his  partner  and  the  daughter  of  the  late 
Fromont,  his  former  employer  and  his  god.  He 
had  placed  her  beside  him,  and  in  his  manner  of 
speaking  to  her  one  could  read  affection  and 
deference.  She  was  a  very  young  woman,  of 
about  the  same  age  as  Sidonie,  but  of  a  more 
regular,  more  placid  type  of  beauty.  She  talked 
but  little,  being  out  of  her  element  in  that  con- 
glomerate assemblage ;  but  she  tried  to  appear 
affable. 

On  Risler's  other  side  sat  Madame  Chcbe,  the 


A    Wedding-Party  at  Cafe    Vefoiir.     5 

bride's  mother,  radiant  and  gorgeous  in  her  dress 
of  green  satin,  which  gleamed  hke  a  shield.  Ever 
since  the  morning  the  good  woman's  every  thought 
had  been  as  brilliant  as  that  robe  of  emblematic 
hue.  At  every  moment  she  said  to  herself:  "  My 
daughter  is  marrying  Fromont  Jeune  and  Risler 
Aine,  of  Rue  des  Vieilles-Haudriettes  !  "  For,  in 
her  mind,  it  was  not  Risler  alone  whom  her 
daughter  took  for  her  husband,  but  the  whole  sign 
of  the  establishment,  illustrious  in  the  commercial 
annals  of  Paris ;  and  whenever  she  mentally  an- 
nounced that  glorious  event,  Madame  Chebe  sat 
more  erect  than  ever,  stretching  the  silk  of  the 
buckler  until  it  almost  cracked. 

What  a  contrast  to  the  attitude  of  Monsieur 
Chcbe,  who  was  seated  a  few  chairs  away !  In 
different  households,  as  a  general  rule,  the  same 
causes  produce  altogether  different  results.  That 
little  man,  with  the  high  forehead  of  a  visionary,  as 
inflated  and  hollow  as  a  garden  ball,  was  as  fierce 
in  appearance  as  his  wife  was  radiant.  That  was 
nothing  unusual,  by  the  way,  for  Monsieur  Chebe 
was  in  a  frenzy  the  whole  year  long.  On  this  parti- 
cular evening,  however,  he  did  not  wear  his  cus- 
tomary woebegone,  lack-lustre  expression,  nor  the 
ample-skirted  coat,  with  the  pockets  sticking  out 
behind,  filled  to  repletion  with  samples  of  oil,  wine, 
truffles  or  vinegar,  according  as  he  happened  to  be 
dealing  in  one  or  the  other  of  those  articles.  Plis 
black  coat,  new  and  magnificent,  made  a  fitting 
pendant  to  the  green  dress ;  but  unfortunately  hjs 
thoughts  were  of  the  color  of  his  coat.     Why  had 


6  Fronwnt  and  Rislcr. 

they  not  seated  him  beside  the  bride,  as  was  his 
right?  Why  had  they  given  his  seat  to  young 
Fromont?  And  there  was  old  Gardinois,  the 
Fromonts'  grandfather,  what  business  had  he  by 
Sidonie's  side?  Ah!  that's  how  it  was  to  be! 
Everything  for  the  Fromonts  and  nothing  for  the 
Chebes !  And  yet  those  people  are  amazed  that 
there  are  such  things  as  revolutions  ! 

Luckily  the  little  man  had  by  his  side,  to  vent 
his  spleen  upon,  his  friend  Delobelle,  an  old  retired 
actor,  who  listened  to  him  with  his  serene  and  ma- 
jestic holiday  countenance.  No  matter  if  one  has 
been  kept  off  the  stage  fifteen  years  by  the  malice 
of  managers,  one  can  still  command,  when  occa- 
sion requires,  theatrical  attitudes  appropriate  to 
the  events  of  the  hour.  So  it  was  that  on  this 
evening  Delobelle  wore  his  wedding-feast  physiog- 
nomy, a  half-serious,  half-smiling  expression,  con- 
descending to  the  unimportant  members  of  the 
party,  at  once  unconstrained  and  solemn.  You 
would  have  said  that  he  was  taking  part,  in  pres- 
ence of  a  whole  theatre-full  of  spectators  in  a  first 
act  banquet  with  pasteboard  viands ;  and  he  had 
even  more  the  appearance  of  playing  a  part,  had 
the  whimsical  Delobelle,  because,  knowing  well  that 
his  talent  would  be  made  use  of  during  the  evening, 
he  had,  ever  since  they  had  taken  their  places  at 
table,  been  going  over  in  his  mind  the  choicest 
pieces  in  his  repertory,  —  an  occupation  which 
gave  to  his  features  a  vague,  artificial,  wandering 
expression,  the  falsely  attentive  air  of  the  actor  on 
the  stage,  pretending  to  listen  to  what  is  being  said 


A    Wedding-Party  at  Cafe    Vcfoicr.      7 

to  him,  but  all  the  tunc  thinking  of  nothing  but  his 
cue. 

Strangely  enough,  the  bride  herself  had  some- 
thing of  that  same  expression.  On  that  youthful 
and  pretty  face,  which  happiness  enlivened  without 
making  glad,  there  appeared  indications  of  some 
secret  preoccupation ;  and,  at  times,  the  corners 
of  her  lips  quivered  with  a  smile,  as  if  she  were 
talking  to  herself. 

With  that  same  little  smile  she  replied  to  the 
somewhat  pronounced  pleasantries  of  grandfather 
Gardinois,  who  sat  by  her  side. 

"  This  Sidonie,  on  my  word  !  "  said  the  goodman 
with  a  laugh.  "  When  I  think  that  not  two  months 
ago  she  was  talking  about  going  into  a  convent. 
We  all  know  what  sort  of  convents  such  minxes  as 
she  go  to  !  As  the  saying  is  in  our  province  :  The 
Convent  of  St.  Joseph,  f our  shoes  under  the  bed/" 

And  everybody  at  the  table  laughed  heartily  at 
the  rustic  jests  of  the  old  Bcrrichon  peasant,  whose 
colossal  fortune  filled  the  place  of  manliness,  of 
education,  of  kindness  of  heart,  but  not  of  wit;  for 
he  had  plenty  of  that,  the  rascal,  —  more  than  all 
his  bourgeois  fellow-guests  together.  Among  the 
very  rare  persons  who  inspired  a  sympathetic  feel- 
ing in  his  breast,  little  Chebe,  whom  he  had  known 
as  a  little  urchin,  appealed  particularly  to  him; 
and  she,  for  her  part,  having  become  rich  too  re- 
cently not  to  venerate  wealth,  talked  to  her  right- 
hand  neighbor  with  a  very  perceptible  air  of 
respect  and  coquetry. 

With  her  left-hand    neighbor,   on  the  contrary, 


8  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

Georges  Fromont,  her  husband's  partner,  she  ex- 
hibited the  utmost  reserve.  Their  conversation 
was  restricted  to  the  ordinary  courtesies  of  the 
table ;  indeed  there  was  a  sort  of  affectation  of 
indifference  between  them. 

Suddenly  there  was  that  little  commotion  among 
the  guests  which  indicates  that  they  are  about  to 
rise,  the  rustling  of  silk,  the  moving  of  chairs,  the 
last  words  of  conversations,  the  completion  of  a 
laugh,  and  in  that  half-silence  Madame  Chebe, 
who  had  become  communicative,  observed  in  a 
very  loud  tone  to  a  provincial  cousin,  who  was  gaz- 
ing in  an  ecstasy  of  admiration  at  the  newly-made 
bride's  reserved  and  tranquil  demeanor,  as  she 
stood  with  her  arm  in  Monsieur  Gardinois's: 

"  You  see  that  child,  cousin  —  well,  no  one  has 
ever  been  able  to  find  out  what  her  thoughts 
were." 

Thereupon  the  whole  party  rose  and  repaired  to 
the  grand  salon. 

While  the  guests  invited  for  the  ball  were  arriv- 
ing in  crowds  and  mingling  with  the  dinner-guests, 
while  the  orchestra  was  tuning  up,  while  the  waltz- 
ers,  eye-glass  in  position,  strutted  in  front  of  the 
white  gowns  of  the  impatient  damsels,  the  bride- 
groom, awed  by  so  great  a  throng,  had  taken  refuge 
with  his  friend  Planus  —  Sigismond  Planus,  cashier 
of  the  house  of  Fromont  for  thirty  years  past  — 
in  that  little  gallery  decorated  with  flowers  and 
hung  with  a  paper  representing  shrubbery  and 
clambering  vines,  which  forms  a  sort  of  back- 
ground of  verdure  to  Vcfour's  gilded  salons. 


A    Wedding-Party  at  Cafe    Vefour.     9 

"  Sigismond,  old  friend  —  I  am  very  happy," 

And  Sigismond  too  was  happy;  but  Rislcr  did 
not  give  him  time  to  say  so.  Now  that  he  was  no 
longer  in  dread  of  weeping  before  his  guests,  all 
the  joy  in  his  heart  overflowed. 

"Just  think  of  it,  my  friend  !  — It's  so  extraor- 
dinary that  a  young  girl  like  her  would  consent  to 
have  me.  For  you  know,  I  'm  not  handsome.  I 
did  n't  need  to  have  that  impudent  creature  tell  me 
so  this  morning  to  know  it.  And  then  I  'm  forty- 
two —  and  she  such  a  dear  little  thing!  There 
were  so  many  others  she  might  have  chosen,  among 
the  youngest  and  the  richest,  to  say  nothing  of  my 
poor  Frantz,  who  loved  her  so.  But,  no,  she  pre- 
ferred her  old  Risler.  And  it  came  about  so 
queerly.  For  a  long  time  I  noticed  that  she  was 
sad,  greatly  changed.  I  felt  sure  there  was 
some  disappointment  in  love  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
Her  mother  and  I.  we  looked  about,  we  cudgelled 
our  brains  to  find  out  what  it  could  be.  One  morn- 
ing Madame  Chebe  came  into  my  room  crying,  and 
said  :  '  You  're  the  man  she  loves,  my  dear  friend  ! ' 
—  And  I  was  the  man,  —  I  was  the  man.  Bless 
my  soul !  Whoever  would  have  suspected  such 
a  thing?  And  to  think  that  in  the  same  year  I 
had  those  two  great  pieces  of  good  fortune  —  a 
partner  in  the  house  of  Fromont  and  married  to 
Sidonie  —  Oh  !  " 

At  that  moment,  to  the  strains  of  a  giddy,  lan- 
guishing waltz,  a  couple  whirled  into  the  small 
salon.  They  were  Risler's  bride  and  his  partner, 
Georges  Fromont.     Equally  young  and  attractive. 


lo  Fromont  and  Risler. 

they  were  talking  in  undertones,  confining  their 
words  within  the  narrow  circle  of  the  waltz. 

"You  lie,"  said  Sidonie,  slightly  pale,  but  with 
the  same  little  smile. 

And  the  other,  paler  than  she,  replied : 

"  I  do  not  lie.  It  was  my  uncle  who  insisted 
upon  this  marriage.  He  was  dying  —  you  had 
gone  away.     I  dared  not  say  no." 

Risler,  at  a  distance,  gazed  at  them  in  admiration. 

"  How  pretty  she  is  !    How  well  they  dance  !  " 

But,  when  they  spied  him,  the  dancers  separated, 
and  Sidonie  walked  quickly  to  him. 

"What!  You  here?  What  are  you  doing?  They 
are  looking  everywhere  for  you.  Why  are  n't  you 
in  there?  " 

As  she  spoke  she  re-tied  his  cravat  with  a  pretty, 
impatient  gesture.  That  enchanted  Risler,  who 
smiled  at  Sigismond  from  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
too  overjoyed  at  feeling  the  touch  of  that  little 
gloved  hand  on  his  neck,  to  notice  that  she  was 
trembling  to  the  ends  of  her  slender  fingers. 

"  Give  me  your  arm,"  she  said  to  him,  and  they 
returned  together  to  the  salons.  The  white  dress 
with  its  long  train  made  the  badly-cut,  awkwardly 
worn  black  coat,  appear  even  more  uncouth ;  but 
a  coat  cannot  be  re-tied  like  a  cravat;  she  must 
needs  take  it  as  it  was.  As  they  passed  along,  re- 
turning the  salutations  of  all  the  guests  who  were 
so  anxious  to  smile  upon  them,  Sidonie  had  a 
momentary  thrill  of  pride,  of  satisfied  vanity. 
Unhappily  it  did  not  last.  In  a  corner  of  the 
salon  sat  a  young  and  attractive  woman  whom  no- 


A    Wedding- Parly  at  Cafe    Vc/our.    1 1 

body  invited  to  dance,  and  who  looked  on  at  the 
dances  with  a  placid  eye,  illumined  by  all  the  joy 
of  a  first  maternity.  As  soon  as  he  saw  her,  Ris- 
Icr  walked  strai<^ht  to  where  she  sat  and  compelled 
Sidonie  to  sit  beside  her.  Needless  to  say  that  it 
was  Madame  "  Chorche."  To  what  other  would 
he  have  spoken  with  such  affectionate  respect?  In 
what  other  hand  than  hers  could  he  have  placed 
his  little  Sidonie's,  saying,  "  You  will  love  her  dearly, 
won't  you?  You  are  so  good.  She  needs  your 
advice,  your  knowledge  of  the  world." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Risler,"  Madame  Georges  re- 
plied, "  Sidonie  and  I  are  old  friends.  Wc  have 
reason  to  be  fond  of  each  other  still." 

And  her  calm,  straightforward  glance  strove  un- 
successfully to  meet  that  of  her  old  friend. 

With  his  utter  ignorance  of  women  and  his  habit 
of  treating  Sidonie  as  a  child,  Risler  continued  in 
the  same  tone : 

"  Take  her  for  your  model,  little  one.  There 
are  not  two  people  in  the  world  like  Madame 
Chorche.  She  has  her  poor  father's  heart.  A 
true  Fromont !  " 

Sidonie,  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  bowed  with- 
out replying,  while  an  imperceptible  shudder  ran 
from  the  tip  of  her  satin  shoe  to  the  topmost  bit 
of  orange  blossom  in  her  crown.  But  honest 
Risler  saw  nothing.  The  excitement,  the  danc- 
ing, the  music,  all  the  flowers,  all  the  lights.  He 
was  drunk,  he  was  mad.  He  believed  that  every- 
body else  breathed  the  same  atmosphere  of  bliss 
beyond  compare  which  enveloped  him.     He  had 


12  Fromoiit  and  Risler. 

no  perception  of  the  rivalries,  the  petty  hatreds 
that  met  and  passed  one  another  above  all  those 
bejewelled  foreheads. 

He  did  not  see  Delobelle,  standing  with  his 
elbow  on  the  mantel,  one  hand  in  the  armhole  of 
his  waistcoat  and  his  hat  upon'  his  hip,  weary  of 
his  eternal  attitudinizing,  while  the  hours  slipped 
by  and  no  one  thought  of  utilizing  his  talents. 
He  did  not  notice  M.  Chebe,  who  was  prowl- 
ing darkly  between  the  two  doors,  more  incensed 
than  ever  against  the  Fromonts.  Oh  !  those  Fro- 
monts !  —  How  large  a  place  they  filled  at  that 
wedding !  They  were  all  there  with  their  wives, 
their  children,  their  friends,  their  friends'  friends. 
One  would  have  said  that  one  of  themselves  was 
being  married.  Who  had  a  word  to  say  of  the 
Rislers  or  the  Chebes?  Why,  he,  he,  the  father, 
had  not  even  been  presented! — And  the  little 
man's  rage  was  redoubled  by  the  attitude  of 
Madame  Chebe,  smiling  maternally  upon  one 
and  all  in  her  scarab-hued  dress. 

Furthermore,  there  were  at  this,  as  at  almost  all 
wedding-parties,  two  quite  distinct  currents  which 
came  together  without  mingling.  One  of  the 
two  soon  gave  place  to  the  other.  The  Fro- 
monts, who  irritated  Monsieur  Chebe  so  much 
and  who  formed  the  aristocracy  of  the  ball,  the 
president  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  the  syn- 
dic of  the  solicitors,  a  famous  chocolate  manu- 
facturer and  member  of  the  Corps  Legislatif,  and 
the  old  millionaire  Gardinois,  all  retired  shortly 
after  midnight.     Georges  Fromont  and  his  wife  en- 


A    Wcdding-Parly  at  Cafe    Vefour.    13 

tcrcd  their  coupe  behind  them.  Only  the  Risler 
and  Chebe  party  remained,  and  the  festivity  at  once 
changed  its  aspect,  becoming  more  uproarious. 

The  ilhistrious  Delobelle,  disgusted  to  see  that 
no  one  called  upon  him  for  anything,  decided  to 
call  upon  himself  for  something,  and  began  in  a 
voice  as  resonant  as  a  gong  the  monologue  from 
Ruy  Bias:  "Good  appetite,  messieurs!"  —  while 
the  guests  thronged  to  the  buffet,  spread  with 
chocolate  and  glasses  of  punch.  Inexpensive  lit- 
tle costumes  were  displayed  upon  the  benches, 
overjoyed  to  produce  their  due  effect  at  last ;  and 
here  and  there  divers  young  shop-clerks,  consumed 
with  dandyism,  amused  themselves  by  venturing 
upon  a  quadrille.  The  bride  had  long  wished  to 
take  her  leave.  At  last  she  disappeared  with  Ris- 
ler and  Madame  Chebe.  As  for  Monsieur  Chebe, 
who  had  recovered  all  his  importance,  it  was  im- 
possible to  induce  him  to  go.  Some  one  must  be 
there  to  do  the  honors,  deuce  take  it !  And  I 
promise  you  that  the  little  man  assumed  the  re- 
sponsibility !  He  was  flushed,  lively,  frolicsome, 
noisy,  almost  seditious.  On  the  floor  below  he 
could  be  heard  talking  politics  with  Vefour's  head 
waiter,  and  making  such  audacious  statements  ! 

Through  the  deserted  streets  the  wedding  car- 
riage, the  tired  coachman  holding  the  white 
reins  somewhat  loosely,  rolled  heavily  toward  the 
Marais. 

Madame  Chebe  talked  continuously,  enumer- 
ating all  the  splendors  of  that  memorable  day, 
rhapsodizing  especially  over  the  dinner,  the  com- 


14  Fromont  and  Risler, 

monplace  menu  of  which  had  been  to  her  the 
highest  expression  of  magnificence.  Sidonie 
mused  in  the  darkness  of  the  carriage,  and  Ris- 
ler, sitting  opposite  her,  even  though  he  no 
longer  said :  "  I  am  very  happy,"  continued  to 
think  it  with  all  his  heart.  Once  he  tried  to 
take  possession  of  a  little  white  hand  that  rested 
against  the  closed  window,  but  it  was  hastily  with- 
drawn, and  he  sat  there  without  moving,  lost  in 
mute  admiration. 

They  drove  through  the  Halles  and  Rue  de 
Rambuteau,  thronged  with  kitchen-gardeners'  wag- 
ons ;  and,  near  the  end  of  Rue  des  Francs-Bour- 
geois, they  turned  the  corner  of  the  Archives 
into  Rue  de  Braque.  There  they  stopped  first, 
and  Madame  Chebe  alighted  at  her  door,  which 
was  too  narrow  for  the  magnificent  green  silk 
dress,  so  that  it  vanished  in  the  hall  with  rustlings 
of  revolt  and  with  all  its  folds  muttering.  A  few- 
minutes  later,  a  tall  massive  portal  on  Rue  des 
Vieilles-Haudriettes,  bearing  on  the  escutcheon 
that  betrayed  the  former  family  mansion,  be- 
neath half-effaced  armorial  bearings,  a  sign  in 
blue  letters : 

WALL   PAPERS, 

was  thrown  wide  open  to  allow  the  wedding  car- 
riage to  pass  through. 

Thereupon  the  bride,  hitherto  motionless  and 
like  one  asleep,  seemed  to  awake  suddenly,  and 
if  all  the  lights  in  the  vast  buildings,  workshops 
or  storehouses,  which  surrounded  the    courtyard, 


A    Wedding-Party  at  Cafe    Vefoiir.    15 

had  not  been  extinguished,  Risler  might  have  seen 
that  pretty,  enigmatical  face  suddenly  lighted  by 
a  smile  of  triumph.  The  wheels  revolved  less 
noisily  on  the  fine  gravel  of  a  garden,  and  soon 
stopped  before  the  stoop  of  a  small  house  of 
two  floors.  It  was  there  that  the  young  Fro- 
monts  lived,  and  Risler  and  his  wife  were  to  take 
up  their  abode  on  the  floor  above.  The  house 
had  an  aristocratic  air.  Flourishing  commerce 
avenged  itself  therein  for  the  dismal  street  and 
the  out-of-the-way  quarter.  There  was  a  carpet 
on  the  stairway  leading  to  their  apartment,  and 
on  all  sides  the  gleaming  whiteness  of  marble, 
the  reflection  of  mirrors  and  polished  copper. 

While  Risler  was  parading  his  delight  through 
all  the  rooms  of  the  new  apartment,  Sidonie  re- 
mained alone  in  her  bedroom.  By  the  light  of 
the  little  blue  lamp  hanging  from  the  ceiling, 
she  glanced  first  of  all  at  the  mirror,  which  gave 
back  her  reflection  from  head  to  foot,  at  all  her 
luxurious  surroundings,  so  unfamiliar  to  her;  the", 
instead  of  going  to  bed,  she  opened  the  windov/ 
and  stood  leaning  against  the  sill,  motionless  as 
a  statue. 

The  night  was  clear  and  warm.  She  could  see 
distinctly  the  whole  factory,  its  innunicrable  un- 
shaded windows,  its  glistening  panes,  its  tall  chim- 
ney losing  itself  in  the  depths  of  the  sky,  and 
nearer  at  hand  the  lovely  little  garden  against  the 
ancient  wall  of  the  former  mansion.  All  about 
were  gloomy,  miserable  roofs,  squalid,  squalid 
streets.      Suddenly  she   started.     Yonder,    in    the 


1 6  Fromoiit  and  Risler, 

darkest,  the  ugliest  of  all  those  attics  crowding 
so  closely  together,  leaning  against  one  another 
as  if  overweighted  with  misery,  a  fifth  floor  win- 
dow stood  wide  open,  showing  only  darkness 
within.  She  recognized  it  at  once.  It  was  the 
window  of  the  landing  on  which  her  parents 
lived. 

The  window  on  the  landing  ! 

How  many  things  the  mere  name  recalled ! 
How  many  hours,  how  many  days  she  had  passed 
there,  leaning  on  that  damp  sill,  without  rail  or 
balcony,  looking  toward  the  factory.  At  that 
moment  she  fancied  that  she  could  see  up  yonder 
little  Chebe's  ragged  person,  and  in  the  frame  made 
by  that  poor  window,  her  whole  child  life,  her  de- 
plorable youth  as  a  Parisian  street  Arab,  passed 
before  her  eyes. 


Three  Families  on  One  Landing.      17 


II. 


LITTLE   CHfeBE'S    STORY.     THREE   FAMILIES   ON 
ONE   LANDING. 

In  Paris  the  common  landing  is  like  an  addi- 
tional room,  an  enlargement  of  their  abodes,  to 
poor  families  confined  in  their  too  small  apart- 
ments. There  it  is  that  they  go  to  get  a  breath 
of  air  in  summer,  there  the  women  talk  and  the 
children  play. 

When  little  Chebe  made  too  much  noise  in  the 
house,  her  mother  would  say  to  her:  "There, 
there  !  you  bother  me,  go  and  play  on  the  land- 
ing."    And  the  child  would  go  quickly  enough. 

This  landing,  on  the  upper  floor  of  an  old  house 
in  which  space  had  not  been  spared,  formed  a  sort 
of  large  lobby,  with  a  high  ceiling,  guarded  on  the 
staircase  side  by  a  wrought-iron  rail,  lighted  by  a 
large  window  which  looked  out  upon  roofs,  court- 
yards and  other  windows,  and,  farther  away,  upon 
the  garden  of  the  Fromont  factory,  which  was  like 
a  green  oasis  among  the  huge  old  walls. 

There  was  nothing  very  enlivening  about  it  all, 
but  the  child  liked  it  much  better  than  her  own 
home.     Their   rooms  were    so    dismal,   especially 
when  it  rained  and  Ferdinand  did  not  go  out. 
2 


1 8  Fromont  and  Risler. 

His  brain  always  smoking  with  new  ideas,  which 
unfortunately  never  came  to  anything,  Ferdinand 
Chebe  was  one  of  those  slothful,  project-devising 
bourgeois  of  whom  there  are  so  many  in  Paris. 
His  wife,  whom  he  had  dazzled  at  first,  had  soon 
detected  his  utter  insignificance,  and  had  ended  by 
enduring  patiently  and  with  unchanged  demeanor 
his  continual  dreams  of  wealth  and  the  disasters 
that  immediately  followed  them. 

Of  the  dowry  of  eighty  thousand  francs  which 
she  had  brought  him  and  which  he  had  squan- 
dered in  his  absurd  schemes,  there  remained  only 
a  small  annuity,  which  still  gave  them  a  position  of 
some  importance  in  the  eyes  of  their  neighbors,  as 
did  Madame  Chebe's  cashmere,  which  had  been 
rescued  from  every  shipwreck,  her  wedding  laces 
and  two  diamond  studs,  very  tiny  and  very  mod- 
est, which  Sidonie  sometimes  begged  her  mother 
to  show  her,  as  they  lay  in  the  drawer  of  the  com- 
mode, in  an  old-fashioned  white  velvet  case,  on 
which  the  jeweller's  name  in  gilt  letters  thirty 
years  old,  was  gradually  vanishing.  That  was 
the  only  bit  of  luxury  in  that  poor  annuitant's 
abode. 

For  a  long,  a  very  long  time  Monsieur  Chebe 
had  sought  a  place  which  would  enable  him  to 
eke  out  their  slender  income.  But  he  sought  it 
only  in  what  he  called  standing  business,  his  health 
forbidding  any  occupation  that  required  him  to  be 
seated. 

It  seemed  that,  soon  after  his  marriage,  when 
he  was  in  a  flourishing  business  and  had  a  horse 


T/ircc  Families  on  One  Landing.      \  9 

and  tilbuiA'  of  his  own,  the  little  man  had  one 
day  a  serious  fall  from  his  carriage.  That  fall, 
to  which  he  referred  upon  every  occasion,  served 
as  an  excuse  for  his  indolence. 

One  could  not  be  with  Monsieur  Chebe  five 
minutes  that  he  would  not  say  in  a  confidential 
tone: 

"You  know  of  the  accident  that  happened  to 
the  Due  d'Orlcans?  " 

And  then  he  would  add,  tapping  his  little  bald 
pate: 

"  The  same  thing  happened  to  me  in  my  youth." 

Since  that  famous  fall  any  sort  of  office  work 
made  him  dizzy,  and  he  had  found  himself  inex- 
orably relegated  to  standing  business.  Thus,  he 
had  been  in  turn  a  broker  in  wines,  in  books,  in 
truffles,  in  clocks,  and  in  many  other  things  beside. 
Unluckily  he  tired  of  everything,  never  considered 
his  position  sufficiently  exalted  for  a  former  busi- 
ness man  with  a  tilbury,  and,  by  gradual  degrees, 
by  dint  of  deeming  every  sort  of  occupation  be- 
neath him,  he  had  grown  old  and  incapable,  a 
genuine   idler  with   loaferish  tastes,   a   zany. 

Artists  are  often  rebuked  for  their  oddities,  for 
the  liberties  they  take  with  nature,  for  that  horror 
of  the  conventional  which  impels  them  to  follow 
bypaths ;  but  who  can  ever  describe  all  the  absurd 
fancies,  all  the  idiotic  eccentricities  with  which  a 
bourgeois  without  occupation  can  succeed  in  filling 
the  emptiness  of  his  life?  Monsieur  Chebe  im- 
posed upon  himself  certain  laws  concerning  his  go- 
ings and  comings,  his  walks  abroad.     All  the  while 


20  Fronioiit  and  Risler. 

that  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol  was  being  built,  he 
went  twice  a  day  "  to  see  if  it  was  getting  on." 

No  one  knew  better  than  he  the  fashionable  shops 
and  the  bargains;  and  very  often  Madame  Chebe, 
annoyed  to  see  her  husband's  idiotic  face  at  the 
window  while  she  was  energetically  mending  the 
family  linen,  would  rid  herself  of  him  by  giving 
him  an  errand  to  do.  "  You  know  that  place,  on 
the  corner  of  such  a  street,  where  they  sell  such 
nice  cakes.     They'd  be  nice  for  our  dessert." 

And  the  husband  would  go  out,  saunter  along 
the  boulevard  by  the  shops,  wait  for  the  omnibus, 
and  pass  half  the  day  in  procuring  two  cakes  worth 
three  sous,  which  he  would  bring  home  in  triumph, 
wiping  his  forehead. 

Monsieur  Chebe  adored  the  summer,  the  Sun- 
days, the  great  foot-races  in  the  dust  at  Clamart  or 
Romainville,  the  excitement  of  holidays  and  the 
crowd.  He  was  one  of  those  who  went  about  for 
a  whole  week  before  the  fifteenth  of  August,  gaz- 
ing at  the  black  lamps  and  their  frames,  and  the 
scaffoldings.  Nor  did  his  wife  complain.  At  all 
events  she  no  longer  had  that  chronic  grumbler 
prowling  around  her  chair  for  whole  days,  with 
schemes  for  gigantic  enterprises,  combinations  that 
missed  fire  in  advance,  lamentations  concerning 
the  past,  and  a  fixed  determination  not  to  earn 
money. 

She  no  longer  earned  anything  herself,  poor 
woman ;  but  she  knew  so  well  how  to  save,  her 
Avonderful  economy  made  up  so  completely  for 
everything   else,  that  absolute  want,  although   a 


Three  Families  on   One  Landing.      21 

near  neighbor  of  such  inipccuniosity  as  thch's, 
never  succeeded  in  making  its  way  into  those 
three  rooms,  which  were  always  neat  and  clean,  or 
in  destroying  the  carefully  mended  garments  or 
the  old  furniture  concealed  beneath  its  coverings. 

Opposite  the  Chcbes'  door,  whose  copper  knob 
gleamed  in  bourgeois  fashion  upon  the  landing, 
there  were  two  other  and  smaller  ones. 

On  the  first,  a  visiting  card  held  in  place  by  four 
nails,  according  to  the  custom  in  vogue  among 
industrial  artists,  bore  the  name  of 

RISLER 

DESIGNER  OF  PATTERNS. 

On  the  other  was  a  small  square  of  leather  with 
these  words  in  gilt  letters : 

MESDAMES    DELOBELLE 

BIRDS    AND    INSECTS    FOR   ORNAMENT. 

The  Dclobcllcs'  door  was  often  open  and  dis- 
closed a  large  room  with  a  brick  floor,  where  two 
women,  mother  and  daughter,  the  latter  almost  a 
child,  each  as  weary  and  as  pale  as  the  other. 
worked  at  one  of  the  thousand  fanciful  little  trades 
which  go  to  make  up  what  is  called  the  Article  de 
Paris. 

It  was  then  the  fashion  to  ornament  hats  and 
ball  dresses  with  the  lovely  little  insects  from 
South  America,  which  have  the  brilliant  coloring 


2  2  Fromont  and  Rzsler. 

of  jewels  and  reflect  the  light  like  diamonds.     The 
Delobelles  had  adopted  that  specialty. 

A  wholesale  house,  to  whom  consignments  were 
made  directly  from  the  Antilles,  sent  to  them, 
unopened,  the  long,  light  boxes  from  which,  when 
the  lid  was  removed,  arose  a  faint  odor,  a  dust  of 
arsenic  through  which  gleamed  the  piles  of  insects, 
impaled  before  being  shipped,  the  birds  packed 
closely  together,  their  wings  held  in  place  by  a 
strip  of  thin  paper.  They  must  all  be  mounted,  — 
the  insects  quivering  upon  brass  wire,  the  hum- 
ming-birds with  their  feathers  ruffled  ;  —  they  must 
be  cleaned  and  polished,  the  break  in  a  bright-red 
claw  repaired  with  a  silk  thread,  dead  eyes  replaced 
with  sparkling  pearls,  and  the  insect  or  the  bird 
restored  to  an  appearance  of  life  and  grace. 

The  mother  prepared  the  work  under  her  daugh- 
ter's direction ;  for  Deslree,  though  she  was  still  a 
mere  girl,  was  endowed  with  exquisite  taste,  with  a 
fairy-like  power  of  invention,  and  no  one  could 
insert  two  pearl-eyes  in  those  tiny  heads  or  spread 
their  lifeless  wings  so  deftly  as  she. 

Lame  from  childhood,  as  the  result  of  an  acci- 
dent which  had  in  no  wise  impaired  the  charm  of 
her  refined  and  regular  features,  Desiree  Delobelle 
owed  to  her  almost  enforced  immobility,  to  her 
constant  disinclination  to  go  out,  a  certain  aristo- 
cratic coloring  and  the  whitest  of  hands.  With 
her  hair  always  becomingly  arranged,  she  passed 
her  days  in  the  depths  of  a  great  easy  chair,  beside 
her  table  laden  with  fashion-plates  and  birds  of  all 
hues,  finding  in  the  fanciful  and  worldly  elegance 


Three  Families  on   One  Landing.      23 

of  her  trade  a  means  of  forgetting  her  own  distress 
and  a  sort  of  vengeance  for  her  disfigured  life. 

She  reflected  that  all  those  tiny  wings  were 
about  to  fly  away  from  her  table  to  undertake  real 
voyages  around  the  Parisian  world,  to  sparkle  at 
balls  and  parties,  beneath  the  great  chandeliers ; 
and  simply  by  the  way  she  set  up  her  insects  and 
her  birds  one  could  have  guessed  the  tenor  of  her 
thoughts.  In  the  days  of  depression  and  melan- 
choly the  tapering  beaks  were  stretched  forward, 
the  wings  were  spread  to  their  fullest  extent,  as  if 
to  fly  with  a  mighty  impulse,  far,  far  away  from 
fifth  floor  lodgings,  from  air-tight  stoves,  from 
privation  and  want.  At  other  times,  when  she 
was  happy,  her  insects  had  the  appearance  of 
being  overjoyed  to  live,  the  saucy  swaggering  air 
of  a  trivial  caprice  of  fashion. 

Happy  or  unhappy,  Dcsiree  always  worked  with 
the  same  energy.  From  dawn  until  well  into  the 
night  the  table  was  covered  with  work.  At  the 
last  ray  of  daylight,  when  the  factory  bells  were 
ringing  in  all  the  neighboring  yards,  Madame 
Delobelle  lighted  the  lamp,  and  after  a  more  than 
frugal  repast  they  returned  to  their  work. 

Those  two  indefatigable  women  had  one  object, 
one  fixed  idea,  which  prevented  them  from  feeling 
the  burden  of  enforced  vigils.  That  idea  was  the 
dramatic  renown  of  the  illustrious  Delobelle, 

After  he  had  left  the  provincial  theatres  to  pur- 
sue his  profession  in  Paris,  Delobelle  waited  for  an 
intelligent  manager,  the  ideal  and  providential 
manager  who  discovers  geniuses,  to  seek  him  out 


24  Fro77iont  and  Risler. 

and  ofifer  him  a  part  suited  to  his  talents.  He 
might,  perhaps,  especially  at  the  beginning,  have 
obtained  a  passably  good  engagement  at  a  theatre 
of  the  third  order,  but  Delobelle  did  not  choose  to 
lower  himself. 

He  preferred  to  wait,  to  struggle,  as  he  said ! 
And  this  is  how  he  awaited  the  struggle. 

In  the  morning  in  his  bedroom,  often  in  his  bed, 
he  rehearsed  roles  in  his  former  repertory;  and 
the  Delobelle  ladies  trembled  with  emotion  when 
they  heard  behind  the  partition  tirades  from 
Antony  or  the  Medeciii  dcs  Eiifants,  declaimed  in 
a  sonorous  voice  that  blended  with  the  thousand 
and  one  noises  of  the  great  Parisian  bee-hive. 
Then,  after  breakfast,  the  actor  would  sally  forth 
for  the  day ;  would  go  to  "  do  his  boulevard,"  that 
is  to  say,  to  saunter  back  and  forth  between  the 
Chateau  d'Eau  and  the  Madeleine,  with  a  tooth- 
pick in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  his  hat  a  little  on 
one  side,  —  always  gloved  and  brushed  and  glossy. 

That  question  of  dress  was  of  great  importance 
in  his  eyes.  It  was  one  of  the  greatest  elements 
of  success,  a  bait  for  the  manager,  —  the  famous, 
intelligent  manager,  —  who  would  never  dream  of 
engaging  a  threadbare,  shabbily  dressed  man. 

So  the  Delobelle  ladies  took  good  care  that  he 
lacked  nothing ;  and  you  can  imagine  how  many 
birds  and  insects  it  required  to  fit  out  a  blade  of 
that  temper !  The  actor  thought  it  the  most  nat- 
ural thing  in  the  world. 

In  his  view,  the  labors,  the  privations  of  his  wife 
and  daughter  were  not,  strictly  speaking,  for  his 


Three  Families  on  One  Landing.      25 

benefit,  but  for  the  benefit  of  that  mysterious  and 
unknown  genius,  whose  trustee  he  considered 
himself  in  some  sense  to  be. 

There  was  a  certain  analogy  between  the  posi- 
tion of  the  Chebe  family  and  that  of  the  Dclobelles. 
But  the  latter  household  was  less  depressing.  The 
Chebcs  felt  that  their  petty  annuitant  existence 
was  fastened  upon  them  forever,  with  no  prospect 
of  amelioration,  always  the  same ;  whereas,  in  the 
actor's  family,  hope  and  illusion  often  opened 
magnificent  vistas. 

The  Chebes  were  like  people  living  in  a  blind 
alley ;  the  Delobelles  on  a  foul  little  street,  where 
there  was  no  light  or  air,  but  where  a  great  boule- 
vard might  some  day  be  laid  out.  And  then,  too, 
Madame  Chebe  no  longer  believed  in  her  husband, 
whereas,  by  virtue  of  that  single  magic  word, 
"Art!"  her  neighbor  had  never  doubted  hers. 

And  yet  for  years  and  years  Monsieur  Dclobelle 
had  been  unavailingly  drinking  vermouth  with 
dramatic  agents,  absinthe  with  leaders  of  claques, 
bitters  with  vaudevillists,  dramatists,  and  the  famous 
what  's-his-namc,  author  of  several  great  dramas.^ 
Engagements  did  not  always  follow.  So  that, 
without  once  appearing  on  the  boards,  the  poor 
man  had  progressed  from  jeime  premier  to  grand 
premier  roles,  then  to  the  financiers,  then  to  the 
noble  fathers,  then  to  the  idiots  — 

Pic  stopped  there  ! 

'  Lc  fameux  machin,  autciir  de  phisieurs  grandes  viachines. 
JMachin  is  an  expression  used  when  one  cannot  recollect  a  person's 
name,  and  machines  in  theatrical  slang  means  dramatic  works. 


26  Fromont  and  Risler. 

On  two  or  three  occasions  his  friends  had  ob- 
tained for  him  a  chance  to  earn  his  hving  as  man- 
ager of  a  club  or  a  cafe,  as  an  inspector  in  great 
warehouses,  at  the  Pliarcs  de  la  Bastille  or  the 
Colosse  de  Rhodes.  All  that  was  necessary  was  to 
have  good  manners.  Delobelle  was  not  lacking 
in  that  respect,  God  knows  !  And  yet  every  sug- 
gestion that  was  made  to  him  the  great  man  met 
with  an  heroic  refusal. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  abandon  the  stage !  "  he 
would  say. 

In  the  mouth  of  that  poor  devil,  who  had  not 
set  foot  on  the  boards  for  years,  it  was  irresistibly 
comical.  But  one  lost  the  inclination  to  laugh 
when  one  saw  his  wife  and  his  daughter  swallowing 
particles  of  arsenic  day  and  night,  and  heard  them 
repeat  emphatically  as  they  broke  their  needles 
against  the  brass  wire  with  which  the  little  birds 
were  mounted : 

"  No  !  no  !  Monsieur  Delobelle  has  no  right  to 
abandon  the  stage." 

Happy  man,  whose  bulging  eyes,  always  smiling 
condescendingly,  and  whose  habit  of  reigning  on 
the  stage  had  procured  for  him  for  life  that  excep- 
tional position  of  a  spoiled  and  admired  child- 
king  !  When  he  left  the  house,  the  shopkeepers 
on  Rue  des  Francs-Bourgeois,  with  the  predilection 
of  the  Parisian  for  everything  and  everybody  con- 
nected with  the  theatre,  saluted  him  respectfully. 
He  was  always  so  well  dressed  !  And  then  he  was 
so  kind,  so  obliging !  When  you  think  that  every 
Saturday  night,  he,  Ruy  Bias,  Antony,  Raphael  in 


Three  Families  on   One  Lauding.      27 

the  Fillcs  dc  Marbrc,  Andres  in  the  Pirates  dc  la 
Savane,  salHed  forth,  with  a  bandbox  under  his 
arm,  to  carry  the  week's  work  of  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter to  a  flower  estabHshment  on  Rue  Saint-Denis! 

Why,  even  when  performing  such  a  commission 
as  that,  the  devil  of  a  fellow  had  such  nobility  of 
bearing,  such  native  dignity,  that  the  young 
woman  whose  duty  it  was  to  make  up  the  Delo- 
belle  account  was  sorely  embarrassed  to  hand  to 
such  an  irreproachable  gentleman  the  paltry  sti- 
pend so  laboriously  earned. 

On  those  evenings,  by  the  way,  the  actor  did 
not  return  home  to  dinner.  The  women  were  fore- 
warned. He  always  met  some  old  comrade  on 
the  boulevard,  some  unlucky  devil  like  himself, — • 
there  are  so  many  of  them  in  that  sacred  profes- 
sion,—  whom  he  entertained  at  a  restaurant  or 
cafe.  Then,  with  scrupulous  fidelity,  —  and  very 
grateful  they  were  to  him,  —  he  would  carry  the 
rest  of  the  money  home,  sometimes  with  a  bouquet 
for  his  wife  or  a  little  present  for  Desiree,  a  nothing, 
a  mere  trifle.  What  would  you  have?  Those  are 
the  customs  of  the  stage.  It  is  such  a  simple 
matter  in  a  melodrama  to  toss  a  handful  of  louis 
through  the  window ! 

"  Ho  !  varlet,  take  this  purse  and  hie  thee  hence 
to  tell  thy  mistress  I  await  her  coming." 

And  so,  notwithstanding  their  marvellous 
courage,  and  although  their  trade  was  quite  lucra- 
tive, the  Delobellcs  often  found  themselves  in 
straitened  circumstances,  especially  in  the  dull 
season  of  the  Article  de  Paris. 


28  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Luckily  the  excellent  Risler  wa?  at  hand,  always 
ready  to  accommodate  his  friends. 

Guillaume  Risler,  the  third  tenant  on  the  land- 
ing, lived  with  his  brother  Frantz,  who  was  some 
fifteen  years  his  junior.  The  two  young  Swiss, 
tall  and  fair  and  strong  and  ruddy,  brought  into 
the  dismal,  hard-working  house  glimpses  of  the 
country  and  of  health.  The  elder  was  a  draughts- 
man at  the  Fromont  factory  and  was  paying 
for  the  education  of  his  brother,  who  attended 
Chaptal's  lectures,  pending  his  admission  to  the 
Ecole  Centrale. 

On  his  arrival  at  Paris,  being  sadly  perplexed  as 
to  the  installation  of  his  little  household,  Guil- 
laume had  derived  from  the  neighborhood  of  Mes- 
dames  Chebe  and  Delobelle  advice  and  information 
which  were  an  indispensable  assistance  to  that 
ingenuous,  timid,  somewhat  heavy  youth,  embar- 
rassed by  his  foreign  accent  and  manner.  After 
a  brief  period  of  neighborhood  and  mutual  ser- 
vices, the  Risler  brothers  formed  a  part  of  both 
families. 

On  holidays  covers  were  always  laid  for  them  in 
one  place  or  the  other,  and  it  was  a  great  satis- 
faction to  the  two  exiles  to  find  in  those  poor 
households,  modest  and  straitened  as  they  were, 
a  taste  of  affection  and  family  life. 

The  pay  of  the  designer,  who  was  very  clever  at 
his  trade,  enabled  him  to  be  of  service  to  the 
Delobelles  on  rent-day,  and  to  make  his  appear- 
ance at  the  Chebes  in  the  guise  of  the  rich  uncle, 
always  laden  with  surprises  and  presents,  so  that 


Three  Families  on  One  Landing.      29 

the  little  girl,  as  soon  as  she  saw  him,  would  run  to 
his  pockets  and  climb  on  his  knees. 

On  Sunday  he  would  take  them  all  to  the 
theatre  ;  and  almost  every  evening  he  would  go  with 
Messieurs  Chebe  and  Dclobelle  to  a  brewery  on 
Rue  Blondcl,  where  he  regaled  them  with  beer  and 
pretzels.     Beer  and  pretzels  were  his  one  vice. 

For  his  own  part,  he  knew  no  greater  bliss  than 
to  sit  before  a  foaming  pewter,  between  his  two 
friends,  listening  to  their  talk,  and  taking  part  only 
by  a  loud  laugh  or  a  shake  of  the  head  in  their 
conversation,  which  was  generally  a  long  succes- 
sion of  grievances  against  society. 

A  childlike  shyness  and  the  germanisms  of 
speech  which  he  never  laid  aside  in  his  life  of 
absorbing  toil,  embarrassed  him  much  in  giving 
expression  to  his  ideas.  Moreover  his  friends 
overawed  him.  They  had  in  respect  to  him  the 
tremendous  superiority  of  the  man  who  does 
nothing  over  the  man  who  works;  and  Monsieur 
Chebe,  less  generous  than  Delobclle,  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  make  him  feel  it.  He  was  very  lofty  with 
him,  was  Monsieur  Chebe  !  In  his  view,  a  man 
who  worked,  as  Rislcr  did,  ten  hours  a  day,  was 
incapable,  when  he  left  his  work,  of  expressing 
an  intelligent  opinion.  Sometimes  the  designer, 
coming  home  worried  from  the  factory,  would  pre- 
pare to  pass  the  night  over  some  urgent  work. 
You  should  have  seen  Monsieur  Chebc's  scandal- 
ized expression  then  ! 

"  Nobody  could  make  mc  follow  such  a  trade  !  " 
he  would  say,  throwing  out  his  chest ;  and  he  would 


30  Fromont  and  Risler. 

add,  looking  Risler  in  the  eye  with  the  air  of  a 
doctor  making  a  professional  visit:  "Just  wait  till 
you  've  had  one  sharp  attack." 

Delobelle  was  not  so  fierce,  but  he  adopted  a 
still  loftier  tone. 

"  The  cedar  does  not  see  a  rose  at  its  foot." 

Delobelle  did  not  see  Risler  at  his  feet. 

When,  by  chance,  he  deigned  to  notice  his 
presence,  the  great  man  had  a  certain  air  of  stoop- 
ing down  to  him  to  listen,  and  to  smile  at  his 
words  as  at  a  child's ;  or  else  he  would  amuse 
himself  by  dazzling  him  with  stories  of  actresses, 
would  give  him  lessons  in  deportment  and  the 
addresses  of  outfitters,  unable  to  understand  why  a 
man  who  earned  so  much  money  should  always 
be  dressed  like  an  usher  at  a  primary  school. 
Honest  Risler,  convinced  of  his  inferiority,  would 
try  to  earn  forgiveness  by  a  multitude  of  trifling 
attentions,  obliged  to  furnish  all  the  delicacy,  of 
course,  as  he  was  the  constant  benefactor. 

Between  these  three  households  living  on  the 
same  landing,  little  Chebe  with  her  perpetual 
goings  and  comings  formed  the  bond  of  union. 

At  all  hours  of  the  day  she  would  steal  into  the 
workroom  of  the  Delobelles,  amuse  herself  by 
watching  their  work  and  looking  at  all  the  insects, 
and,  being  already  more  coquettish  than  playful, 
if  an  insect  had  lost  a  wing  in  its  travels,  or  a 
humming-bird  its  necklace  of  down,  she  would  try 
to  make  herself  a  headdress  of  the  remains,  to  fix 
that  brilliant  shaft  of  color  among  the  ripples  of 
her  silky  hair.     It  made  Desiree  and  her  mother 


Three  Families  on  One  Landing.      31 

laugh  to  sec  her  stand  on  tiptoe  in  front  of  the  old 
tarnished  mirror,  with  affected  httle  shrugs  and 
grimaces.  Then,  when  she  had  had  enough  of  her 
own  admiration,  the  child  would  open  the  door 
with  all  the  strength  of  her  little  fingers,  and  would 
go  demurely,  holding  her  head  perfectly  straight 
for  fear  of  disarranging  her  head-dress,  and  knock 
at  the  Rislers'  door. 

No  one  was  there  in  the  daytime  but  Frantz  the 
student,  leaning  over  his  books,  doing  his  duty 
faithfully  enough.  Enter  Sidonie ;  farewell  to 
study  then !  Everything  must  be  put  aside  to 
receive  that  lovely  creature  with  the  hummingbird 
in  her  hair,  assumed  to  be  a  princess  who  had 
come  to  Chaptal's  school  to  ask  his  hand  in  mar- 
riage from  the  director. 

It  was  really  a  strange  sight  to  see  that  tall  over- 
grown boy  playing  with  that  little  girl  of  eight, 
humoring  her  caprices,  adoring  her  as  he  yielded 
to  her,  so  that  later,  when  he  fell  genuinely  in  love 
with  her,  no  one  could  have  said  at  what  time  the 
change  began. 

Petted  as  she  was  in  those  two  homes,  there 
always  came  a  time  when  little  Chebe  ran  to  the 
window  on  the  landing.  There  it  was  that  she 
found  her  greatest  source  of  entertainment,  a 
horizon  always  open,  a  sort  of  vision  of  the  future 
toward  which  she  leaned  with  eager  curiosity  and 
without  fear,  for  children  are  not  subject  to  vertigo. 

Between  the  slated  roofs  sloping  toward  one 
another,  the  high  wall  of  the  factory,  the  tops  of 
the  plane-trees  in  the  garden,  the  many-windowed 


32  Fromoiit  and  Risler, 

workshops  appeared  to  her  hke  a  promised  land, 
the  country  of  her  dreams. 

That  Fromont  estabhshment  was  to  her  mind 
the  highest  embodiment  of  wealth. 

The  place  that  it  occupied  in  that  part  of  the 
Marais,  which  was  at  certain  hours  enveloped  by 
its  smoke  and  its  din,  Risler's  enthusiasm,  his  fabu- 
lous tales  concerning  his  employer's  wealth  and 
goodness  and  cleverness,  had  aroused  that  childish 
curiosity;  and  such  portions  as  she  could  see  of 
the  dwelling-houses,  the  carved  wooden  blinds,  the 
circular  stoop,  with  the  garden  seats  arranged  in 
front,  a  great  white  bird-house  with  gilt  stripes 
glistening  in  the  sun,  the  blue-lined  coupe  stand- 
ing in  the  courtyard,  were  to  her  objects  of  con- 
stant admiration. 

She  knew  all  the  habits  of  the  family:  at  what 
hour  the  bell  was  rung,  when  the  workmen  went 
away,  the  Saturday  pay-day  which  kept  the  cashier's 
little  lamp  lighted  well  into  the  evening,  and  the 
long  Sunday  afternoon,  the  closed  workshops,  the 
smokeless  chimney,  the  profound  silence  which 
enabled  her  to  hear  Mademoiselle  Claire  at  play  in 
the  garden,  running  about  with  her  cousin  Georges. 
From  Risler  she  obtained  details. 

"  Show  me  the  salon  windows,"  she  would  say 
to  him,  "  and  Claire's  room." 

Risler,  delighted  by  this  extraordinary  sympa- 
thetic interest  in  his  beloved  factory,  would  explain 
to  the  child  from  their  lofty  position  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  buildings,  point  out  the  print-shop, 
the   gilding-shop,   the    designing   room  where  he 


Three  Families  on  One  Landing.      33 

worked,  the  engine-room,  above  which  towered 
that  enormous  chimney  which  blackened  all  the 
neighboring  walls  with  its  corrosive  smoke,  and 
which  of  a  surety  never  suspected  that  a  young 
life,  concealed  beneath  a  roof  near  by,  mingled 
its  inmost  thoughts  with  its  loud,  indefatigable 
breath. 

One  day  Sidonie  at  last  entered  that  paradise  of 
which  she  had  caught  a  glimpse. 

Madame  Fromont,  to  whom  Risler  often  spoke 
of  her  little  neighbor's  beauty  and  intelligence, 
asked  him  to  bring  her  to  the  children's  ball  she 
was  preparing  to  give  at  Christmas.  At  first 
Monsieur  Chebe  replied  by  a  curt  refusal.  Even 
in  those  days,  the  Fromonts,  whose  name  was 
always  on  Risler's  lips,  irritated  and  humiliated 
him  by  their  wealth.  Moreover,  it  was  to  be  a 
fancy  ball,  and  Monsieur  Chebe  —  who  did  not 
sell  wall-papers,  not  he! — could  not  afford  to 
dress  his  daughter  as  a  rope-dancer.  But  Risler 
insisted,  declared  that  he  would  take  everything 
upon  himself,  and  at  once  set  about  designing  a 
costume. 

It  was  a  memorable  evening. 

In  Madame  Ch^be's  bedroom,  littered  with  pieces 
of  cloth  and  pins  and  small  toilet  articles,  Desiree 
Delobelle  superintended  Sidonie's  toilet.  The 
child,  made  taller  by  her  short  skirt  of  red  flannel 
with  black  stripes,  stood  before  the  mirror,  erect 
and  motionless,  in  the  glittering  splendor  of  her 
costume.  She  was  charming.  The  waist  with 
bands  of  velvet  laced  over  the  white  stomacher, 
3 


34  Fromojit  and  Rislcr. 

the  lovely  long  tresses  of  chestnut  hair  escaping 
from  beneath  a  hat  of  plaited  straw,  all  the  slightly 
trivial  details  of  her  Savoyard's  costume  were 
heightened  by'the  intelligent  features  of  the  child, 
who  was  quite  at  her  ease  in  the  brilliant  colors 
of  that  theatrical  garb. 

The  whole  assembled  neighborhood  uttered  cries 
of  admiration.  While  some  one  went  in  search  of 
Delobelle,  the  lame  girl  arranged  the  folds  of  the 
skirt,  the  bows  on  the  shoes,  and  cast  a  final  glance 
over  her  work,  without  laying  aside  her  needle ; 
she  too  was  excited,  poor  child,  by  the  intoxication 
of  that  festivity,  to  which  she  was  not  bidden. 
The  great  man  arrived.  He  made  Sidonie  rehearse 
two  or  three  stately  reverences  which  he  had 
taught  her,  the  proper  way  to  walk,  to  stand,  to 
smile  with  her  mouth  open  in  a  circle,  and  the 
exact  position  of  the  little  finger.  It  was  truly 
comical  to  see  the  precision  with  which  the  child 
went  through  the  drill. 

"  She  has  actor's  blood  in  her  veins !  "  ex- 
claimed the  old  actor  enthusiastically,  and  unable 
to  understand  why  that  great  booby  of  a  Frantz 
was  strongly  inclined  to  weep. 

A  year  after  that  happy  evening  Sidonie  could 
have  told  you  what  flowers  there  were  in  the 
reception  rooms,  the  color  of  the  furniture,  and  the 
air  they  were  playing  as  she  entered  the  ball-room, 
so  deep  an  impression  did  her  enjoyment  make 
upon  her.  She  forgot  nothing,  neither  the  cos- 
tumes that  made  an  eddying  whirl  about  her,  nor 
the  childish  laughter,  nor  all  the  tiny  steps  that 


Three  Families  on  One  Lanelijig.      35 

glided  over  the  glistening  floors.  For  a  moment, 
as  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  great  red  silk  couch, 
taking  from  the  plate  held  before  her  the  first 
sherbet  of  her  life,  she  suddenly  thought  of  the 
dark  staircase,  of  her  parents'  stuffy  little  rooms, 
and  it  produced  upon  her  the  effect  of  a  distant 
country  which  she  had  left  forever. 

However,  she  was  considered  a  fascinating  crea- 
ture, and  was  universally  admired  and  petted. 
Claire  Fromont,  a  miniature  Cauchoise  dressed  all 
in  lace,  presented  her  to  her  cousin  Georges,  a 
magnificent  hussar  who  turned  at  every  step  to 
observe  the  effect  of  his  sabre. 

"  You  understand,  Georges,  she  is  my  friend. 
She  is  coming  to  play  with  us  Sundays.  Mamma 
says  she  may." 

And,  with  the  artless  impulsiveness  of  a  happy 
child,  she  kissed  little  Chebe  with  all  her  heart. 

But  the  time  came  to  go.  —  For  a  long  time,  in 
the  filthy  street  where  the  snow  was  melting,  in 
the  dark  hall,  in  the  silent  room  where  her  mother 
awaited  her,  the  brilliant  light  of  the  salons  con- 
tinued to  shine  before  her  dazzled  eyes. 

"  Was  it  very  fine?  Did  you  have  a  good  time?  " 
queried  Madame  Chebe  in  a  low  tone,  unfastening 
the  buckles  of  the  gorgeous  costume,  one  by  one. 

And  Sidonie,  overdone  with  fatigue,  made  no 
reply,  but  fell  asleep  standing,  beginning  a  lovely 
dream  which  was  to  last  throughout  her  youth  and 
cost  her  many  tears. 

Claire  Fromont  kept  her  word.  Sidonie  often 
went  to  play  in  the  beautiful  gravelled  garden,  and 


36  Fromont  and  Risler, 

was  able  to  see  near  at  hand  the  carved  bhnds,  the 
dovecot  with  its  threads  of  gold.  She  came  to 
know  all  the  corners  and  hiding  places  in  the 
vast  factory  and  took  part  in  many  glorious  games 
of  hide-and-seek  behind  the  printing  tables  in  the 
solitude  of  Sunday  afternoon.  On  holidays  a 
cover  was  laid  for  her  at  the  children's  table. 

Everybody  loved  her,  although  she  never  ex< 
hibited  much  affection  for  anyone.  So  long  as 
she  was  in  the  midst  of  that  luxury,  she  was  con- 
scious of  softer  impulses,  she  was  happy  and  felt 
that  she  was  embellished  by  her  surroundings,  as 
it  were;  but  when  she  returned  to  her  parents, 
when  she  saw  the  factory  through  the  dirty  panes 
of  the  window  on  the  landing,  she  had  an  inex- 
plicable feeling  of  regret  and  anger. 

And  yet  Claire  Fromont  treated  her  as  a  friend. 

Sometimes  they  took  her  to  the  Bois,  to  the 
Tuileries,  in  the  famous  blue-lined  coupe,  or  into 
the  country,  to  pass  a  whole  week  at  Grandfather 
Gardinois's  chateau,  at  Savigny-sur-Orge.  Thanks 
to  the  munificence  of  Risler,  who  was  very  proud 
of  his  little  one's  success,  she  was  always  presenta- 
ble and  well-supplied.  Madame  Chebe  made  it  a 
point  of  honor,  and  the  pretty  lame  girl  was  always 
at  hand  to  place  her  treasures  of  unused  coquetry 
at  her  little  friend's  service. 

But  Monsieur  Chebe,  who  was  always  hostile  to 
the  Fromonts,  looked  frowningly  upon  this  grow- 
ing intimacy.  The  true  reason  was  that  he  himselt 
was  never  invited ;  but  he  gave  other  reasons  and 
would  say  to  his  wife : 


Three  Families  on  One  Landing,      37 

"Don't  you  sec  that  your  daughter's  heart  is 
heavy  when  she  returns  from  that  house,  and  that 
she  passes  whole  hours  dreaming  at  the  wmdow?  " 

But  poor  Madame  Chebe,  who  had  been  so 
unhappy  ever  since  her  marriage,  had  become 
reckless.  She  declared  that  one  should  make  the 
most  of  the  present  for  fear  of  the  future,  should 
seize  happiness  when  it  passes  within  reach,  as 
one  often  has  no  other  support  and  consolation  in 
life  than  the  memory  of  a  happy  childhood. 

For  once  it  happened  that  Monsieur  Chebe  was 
right. 


38  Fromont  and  Risler, 


III. 

LITTLE   CH£BE'S   STORY  — THE   FALSE   PEARLS. 

After  two  or  three  years  of  intimacy  with  Claire, 
of  sharing  her  amusements,  years  during  which 
Sidonie  acquired  the  famiharity  with  kixury  and 
the  graceful  manners  of  the  children  of  the 
wealthy,  the  friendship  was  suddenly  broken. 

Cousin  Georges,  whose  guardian  M.  Fromont 
was,  had  entered  college  some  time  before.  Claire 
in  her  turn  took  her  departure  for  the  convent 
with  the  outfit  of  a  little  queen ;  and  at  that  very 
moment  the  Chebes  were  discussing  the  question 
of  apprenticing  Sidonie  to  some  trade.  They 
promised  to  love  each  other  as  before  and  to 
meet  twice  a  month,  on  the  Sundays  when  Claire 
was  allowed  to  go  home. 

Indeed  little  Chebe  did  still  go  down  sometimes 
to  play  with  her  friends ;  but  as  she  grew  older 
she  realized  more  fully  the  distance  that  separated 
them,  and  her  dresses  began  to  seem  to  her  very 
simple  for  Madame  Fromont's  salon. 

When  the  three  were  alone,  the  childish  friend- 
ship which  made  them  equals  prevented  any  feel- 
ing of  embarrassment;  but  visitors  came,  girl 
friends  from  the  convent,  among  others  a  tall  girl, 


The  False  Pearls.  39 

always  richly  dressed,  whom  her  mother's  maid 
used  to  bring  to  play  with  the  little  Fromonts 
on  Sunday. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  her  coming  up  the  steps, 
resplendent  and  disdainful,  Sidonie  longed  to  go 
away  at  once.  The  other  embarrassed  her  with 
awkward  questions.  Where  did  she  live?  What 
did  her  parents  do?     Had  she  a  carriage? 

As  she  listened  to  their  talk  of  the  convent  and 
their  friends,  Sidonie  felt  that  they  lived  in  a 
different  world,  a  thousand  leagues  from  her  own; 
and  a  deathly  sadness  seized  her,  especially  when, 
on  her  return  home,  her  mother  spoke  of  sending 
her  as  an  apprentice  to  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire,  a 
friend  of  the  Delobelles,  who  conducted  a  large 
false  pearl  establishment  on  Rue  du  Roi-Dore. 

Rislcr  insisted  upon  the  plan  of  having  the  little 
one  serve  an  apprenticeship.  "  Let  her  learn  a 
trade,"  said  the  honest  fellow.  "  Later  I  will 
undertake  to  set  her  up  in  business." 

Indeed  this  same  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire  talked 
of  retiring  in  a  few  years.  It  was  an  excellent 
opportunity. 

One  morning,  a  dull  morning  in  November,  her 
father  took  her  to  Rue  du  Roi-Dorc,  to  the  fourth 
floor  of  an  old  house,  even  older  and  blacker  than 
her  own  home. 

On  the  ground  floor,  at  the  entrance  to  the  hall, 
hung  a  number  of  signs  with  gilt  letters :  Depot 
for  Travelling  Bags,  Plated  Chains,  Childrciis  Toys, 
Mathematical  Instrnvients  in  Glass,  Bouquets  for 
Brides   and   Maids   of   Honor,    Wild   Flowers  a 


40  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Specialty;  and  above,  a  little  dusty  show-case, 
wherein  pearls  yellow  with  age,  glass  grapes 
and  cherries  surrounded  the  pretentious  name 
of  Angelina  Le  Mire. 

Such  a  horrible  house  ! 

It  had  not  even  a  broad  landing  like  that  of  the 
Chebes,  grimy  with  old  age,  but  brightened  by  its 
window  and  the  beautiful  prospect  presented  by 
the  factory.  A  narrow  staircase,  a  narrow  door,  a 
succession  of  rooms  with  brick  floors,  all  small 
and  cold,  and  in  the  last  an  old  maid  with  a  false 
front  and  black  thread  mitts,  reading  a  soiled  copy 
of  the  Journal  pour  Tons,  and  apparently  very 
much  annoyed  to  be  disturbed  in  her  reading. 

Mademoiselle  Le  Mire  (written  in  two  words) 
received  the  father  and  daughter  without  rising, 
discoursed  at  great  length  of  the  position  she 
had  lost,  of  her  father,  an  old  nobleman  of  Le 
Rouergue  —  it  is  most  extraordinary  how  many  old 
noblemen  Le  Rouergue  has  already  produced  !  — 
and  of  an  unfaithful  steward  who  had  carried  off 
their  whole  fortune.  She  instantly  aroused  the 
sympathies  of  Monsieur  Chebe,  for  whom  decayed 
gentlefolk  had  an  irresistible  attraction,  and  the 
goodman  went  away  overjoyed,  promising  his 
daughter  to  call  for  her  at  seven  o'clock  at  night 
in  accordance  with  the  terms  agreed  upon. 

The  apprentice  was  at  once  ushered  into  the 
still  empty  workroom.  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire 
seated  her  in  front  of  a  great  drawer  filled  with 
pearls,  needles,  and  bodkins,  with  instalments  of 
four-sous  novels  thrown  in  at  random  among  them. 


The  False  Pearls.  41 

It  was  Sidonic's  business  to  sort  the  pearls  and 
string  them  in  necklaces  of  equal  length,  which 
were  tied  together  to  be  sold  to  the  small  dealers. 
Then  the  young  women  would  soon  be  there  and 
they  would  show  her  exactly  what  she  would  have 
to  do,  for  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire  (written  in  two 
words)  did  not  interfere  at  all,  but  overlooked  her 
business  from  a  considerable  distance,  from  that 
dark  room  where  she  passed  her  life  reading  news- 
paper novels. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  workwomen  arrived,  five  tall, 
pale-faced,  faded  girls,  wretchedly  dressed,  but 
with  their  hair  becomingly  arranged,  after  the 
fashion  of  poor  working  girls  who  go  about  bare- 
headed through  the  streets  of  Paris. 

Two  or  three  were  yawning  and  rubbing  their 
eyes,  saying  that  they  were  dead  with  sleep.  Who 
can  say  what  they  had  done  with  their  night? 

At  last  they  went  to  work  beside  a  long  table 
where  each  one  had  her  own  drawer  and  her  own 
tools.  An  order  had  been  received  for  mourning 
jewels,  and  haste  was  essential.  Sidonie,  whom  the 
forewoman  instructed  in  her  task  in  a  tone  of  in- 
finite superiority,  began  dismally  to  sort  a  multi- 
tude of  black  pearls,  bits  of  glass  and  wisps  of 
crepe. 

The  others,  paying  no  attention  to  the  urchin, 
chatted  together  as  they  worked.  They  talked  of 
a  wedding  that  was  to  take  place  that  very  day  at 
Saint-Gervais. 

"  Suppose  we  go,"  said  a  stout,  red-haired  girl, 
whose  name  was  Malvina.     "  It's   to  be   at  noon. 


42  Fromojit  and  Risler. 

We  shall  have  time  to  go  and  get  back  again  if  we 
hurry." 

And,  at  the  lunch  hour,  the  whole  party  rushed 
downstairs  four  steps  at  a  time. 

Sidonie  had  brought  her  meal  in  a  little  basket, 
like  a  school-girl ;  with  a  heavy  heart  she  sat  at  a 
corner  of  the  table  and  ate  alone  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life.  Great  God  !  what  a  sad  and  wretched 
thing  life  seemed  to  be,  what  a  terrible  revenge 
she  would  take  hereafter  for  her  sufferings  there ! 

At  one  o'clock  the  girls  trooped  noisily  back, 
highly  excited. 

"  Did  you  see  the  white  satin  dress?  And  the 
veil  oi point  d'Angleterrc?     There  's  a  lucky  girl !  " 

Thereupon  they  repeated  in  the  workroom  the  re- 
marks they  had  made  in  undertones  in  the  church, 
leaning  against  the  rail,  throughout  the  ceremony. 
That  question  of  a  wealthy  marriage,  of  beautiful 
clothes,  lasted  all  day  long;  nor  did  it  interfere 
with  their  work,  far  from  it. 

These  small  Parisian  industries,  which  have  to  do 
with  the  most  trivial  details  of  the  toilet,  keep  the 
work-girls  posted  as  to  the  fashions  and  fill  their 
minds  everlastingly  with  thoughts  of  luxury  and 
elegance.  To  the  poor  girls  who  worked  on 
Mademoiselle  Le  Mire's  fourth  floor,  the  blackened 
walls,  the  narrow  street  did  not  exist.  They  were 
always  thinking  of  something  else  and  passed  their 
lives  asking  one  another : 

"  Say,  Malvina,  if  you  were  rich  what  would  you 
do?  For  my  part  I'd  live  on  the  Champs- 
Elysees."     And    the    great    trees    on    the    square, 


The  False  Peaids.  43 

the  carriages  that  turned  about  there,  coqucttishly 
slackening  their  pace,  appeared  momentarily 
before  their  minds,  a  delicious  refreshing    vision. 

Little  Chebe,  in  her  corner,  listened  without 
speaking,  industriously  stringing  her  black  grapes 
with  the  precocious  dexterity  and  taste  she  had 
acquired  in  Desiree's  neighborhood.  So  that  in 
the  evening,  when  Monsieur  Chebe  came  to  fetch 
his  daughter,  they  praised  her  in  the  highest  terms. 

Thereafter  all  her  days  were  alike.  The  next 
day,  instead  of  black  pearls,  she  strung  white 
pearls  and  bits  of  false  coral ;  for  at  Mademoiselle 
Le  Mire's  they  worked  only  in  what  was  false,  in 
tinsel,  and  that  was  where  little  Chebe  was  to  serve 
her  apprenticeship  in  life. 

For  some  time  the  new  apprentice  —  being 
younger  and  better  bred  than  the  others  —  found 
that  they  held  aloof  from  her.  Later,  as  she  grew 
older,  she  was  admitted  to  their  friendship  and 
their  confidence,  but  without  ever  sharing  their 
pleasures.  She  was  too  proud  to  go  to  see  wed- 
dings at  midday;  and  when  she  heard  them  talking 
of  a  ball  at  Vauxhall  or  the  Dclices  dti  Marais, 
or  of  a  nice  little  supper  at  Bonvalet's  or  at  the 
Quatrc  Scri:;cnts  dc  la  Rochc/lc,  she  was  always 
very  disdainful. 

We  looked  higher  than  that,  did  we  not,  little 
Chebe? 

Moreover,  her  father  called  for  her  every  even- 
ing. Sometimes,  however,  about  the  New  Year, 
she  was  obliged  to  work  late  with  the  others,  in 
order  to  complete  the  urgent  orders.     In  the  gas- 


44  Fromont  and  Risler, 

light  those  pale-faced  Parisians,  sorting  pearls  as 
white  as  themselves,  of  a  dead,  unhealthy  whiteness, 
were  a  painful  spectacle.  There  was  the  same 
fictitious  glitter,  the  same  fragility  of  spurious 
jewels.  They  talked  of  nothing  but  masked  balls 
and  theatres. 

"  Have  you  seen  Adele  Page,  in  the  Trois  Moiis- 
qiietaires?  And  Melingue?  And  Marie  Laurent? 
Oh  !   Marie  Laurent !  " 

The  actors'  doublets,  the  embroidered  dresses  of 
the  queens  of  melodrama  appeared  before  them 
in  the  white  light  of  the  necklaces  forming  beneath 
their  fingers. 

In  summer  the  work  was  less  pressing.  It  was 
the  dull  season.  In  the  intense  heat,  when  through 
the  drawn  blinds  fruit  vendors  could  be  heard 
in  the  street,  crying  their  mirabelles  and  Queen 
Claudes,  the  work-girls  slept  heavily,  their  heads 
on  the  table.  Or  perhaps  Malvina  would  go  and 
ask  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire  for  a  copy  of  the 
Jonyjial pour  Tons,  and  read  aloud  to  the  others. 

But  little  Chebe  did  not  care  for  the  novels. 
She  carried  one  in  her  head  much  more  interesting 
than  all  that  trash. 

The  fact  is  that  nothing  could  make  her  forget 
the  factory.  When  she  set  forth  in  the  morning  on 
her  father's  arm,  she  always  cast  a  glance  in  that 
direction.  At  that  hour  the  works  were  just  wak- 
ing, the  chimney  emitted  its  first  puff  of  black 
smoke.  Sidonie,  as  she  passed,  could  hear  the 
shouts  of  the  workmen,  the  dull,  heavy  blows  of 
the  bars  of  the  printing-press,  the  mighty,  rhyth- 


The  False  Pearls.  45 

mical  hum  of  the  machinery,  and  all  those  sounds 
of  toil,  blended  in  her  memory  with  recollec- 
tions of  fetes  and  blue-lined  coupes,  haunted  her 
persistently. 

They  spoke  louder  than  the  rattle  of  the  omni- 
buses, the  street  cries,  the  cascades  in  the  gutters ; 
and  even  in  the  workroom,  when  she  was  sorting 
the  false  pearls,  even  at  night,  in  her  own  home, 
when  she  went,  after  dinner,  to  breathe  the  fresh 
air  at  the  window  on  the  landing  and  to  gaze 
at  the  dark,  deserted  factory,  that  murmur  still 
buzzed  in  her  ears,  forming,  as  it  were,  a  constant 
accompaniment  to  her  thoughts. 

"  The  little  one  is  tired,  Madame  Chebe.  She 
needs  aiversion.  Next  Sunday  I  will  take  you  all 
into  the  country." 

These  Sunday  excursions,  which  honest  Risler 
organized  to  divert  Sidonie,  served  only  to  sadden 
her  still  more. 

On  those  days  she  must  rise  at  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning;  for  the  poor  must  pay  for  all  their 
enjoyments,  and  there  was  always  a  ribbon  to  be 
ironed  at  the  last  moment,  or  a  bit  of  trimming 
to  be  sewn  on  in  an  attempt  to  rejuvenate  the  ever- 
lasting little  lilac  dress  with  white  stripes  which 
Madame  Chcbe  conscientiously  lengthened  every 
year. 

They  would  all  set  off  together,  the  Chebes,  the 
Rislers  and  the  illustrious  Delobelle.  Only  Desiree 
and  her  mother  were  never  of  the ,  party.  The 
poor  crippled  child,  ashamed  of  her  deformity, 
would  never  stir  from  her  chair,  and  Mamma  De- 


46  Fromont  and  Risler. 

lobelle  stayed  behind  to  keep  her  company.  More- 
over, neither  of  them  possessed  a  suitable  dress  in 
which  to  show  herself  out-of-doors  in  their  great 
man's  company ;  it  would  have  destroyed  the  whole 
effect  of  his  appearance. 

When  they  left  the  house,  Sidonie  would  brighten 
up  a  little.  Paris  in  the  pink  haze  of  a  July  morn- 
ing, the  railway  stations  filled  with  light  dresses, 
the  country  flying  past  the  car  windows,  and  the 
healthful  exercise,  the  bath  un  the  pure  air  sat- 
urated with  the  water  of  the  Seine,  vivified  by  a 
bit  of  forest,  perfumed  by  flowering  meadows,  by 
ripening  grain,  all  combined  to  make  her  giddy 
for  a  moment.  But  that  sensation  was  soon  suc- 
ceeded by  disgust  at  such  a  commonplace  way  of 
passing  her  Sunday. 

It  was  always  the  same  thing. 

They  stopped  at  a  refreshment  booth,  in  close 
proximity  to  a  very  noisy  and  numerously  attended 
rustic  festival,  for  there  must  be  an  audience  for 
Delobelle,  who  would  saunter  along,  absorbed  by 
his  chimera,  dressed  in  gray,  with  gray  gaiters,  a 
little  hat  over  his  ear,  a  light  overcoat  on  his  arm, 
imagining  that  the  stage  represented  a  country 
scene  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris,  and  that  he  was 
playing  the  part  of  a  Parisian  sojourning  in  the 
country. 

As  for  Monsieur  Chebe,  who  prided  himself  on 
being  as  fond  of  nature  as  the  late  Jean  Jacques, 
he  did  not  appreciate  it  without  the  accompani- 
ments of  shooting-matches,  wooden  horses,  sack 
races,  and  a  profusion  of  dust  and  penny-whistles, 


TJic  False  Pearls.  47 

which   also   constituted  Madame  Chcbc's  ideal  of 
a  country  life. 

But  Sidonie  had  a  diftcrent  ideal ;  and  those  Par- 
isian Sundays  passed  in  strolling  through  noisy 
village  streets  depressed  her  beyond  measure. 
Her  only  pleasure  in  those  crowds  was  the  con- 
sciousness of  being  stared  at.  The  veriest  boor's 
admiration,  frankly  expressed  aloud  at  her  side, 
made  her  smile  all  day ;  for  she  was  of  those  who 
disdain  no  compliment. 

Sometimes,  leaving  the  Chcbes  and  Delobelle  in 
the  midst  of  the  fete,  Risler  would  go  into  the 
fields  with  his  brother  and  the  "  little  one,"  in 
search  of  flowers,  of  patterns  for  his  wall-papers. 
Frantz,  with  his  long  arms,  would  pull  down  the 
topmost  branches  of  a  hawthorn,  or  would  climb 
a  park  wall  to  pick  a  leaf  of  graceful  shape  he  had 
spied  on  the  other  side.  But  they  reaped  their 
richest  harvests  on  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

There  they  found  those  flexible  plants  with  long 
swaying  stalks,  which  make  such  a  lovely  effect  on 
hangings,  tall,  straight  reeds,  and  the  volubilis, 
whose  flower,  opening  suddenly  as  if  in  obedience 
to  a  caprice,  resembles  a  living  face,  some  one 
looking  at  you  amid  the  lovely,  quivering  foliage. 
Risler  arranged  his  nosegays  artistically,  drawing 
his  inspiration  from  the  very  nature  of  the  plants, 
trying  to  understand  thoroughly  their  manner  of 
life,  which  cannot  be  divined  after  a  day  of  fatigue 
has  passed  over  them. 

Then,  when  the  bouquet  was  completed,  tied 
with  a  broad  blade  of  grass  as  with  a  ribbon,  and 


48  Fromont  and  Risler. 

slung  over  Frantz's  back,  away  they  went.  Risler, 
always  engrossed  in  his  art,  looked  about  for  sub- 
jects, for  possible  combinations,  as  they  walked 
along. 

"  Look  there,  little  one  —  see  that  bunch  of  lily 
of  the  valley,  with  its  white  bells,  among  those 
eglantines.  What  do  you  think?  Wouldn't  that 
be  pretty  against  a  sea-green  or  pearl-gray  back- 
ground? " 

But  Sidonie  cared  no  more  for  lilies  of  the  valley 
than  for  eglantine.  Wild  flowers  always  seemed 
to  her  like  the  flowers  of  the  poor,  something  after 
the  manner  of  her  lilac  dress. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  seen  flowers  of  a 
different  sort  at  Monsieur  Gardinois's,  at  the  Cha- 
teau de  Savigny,  in  the  hothouses,  on  the  balconies, 
and  all  about  the  gravelled  courtyard  lined  with 
tall  urns. 

Those  were  the  flowers  she  loved  ;  that  was  her 
idea  of  the  country  ! 

The  thought  of  Savigny  recurred  at  every  step. 
When  they  passed  a  park  gate  she  would  stop  and 
gaze  at  the  smooth,  straight  road,  which  probably 
led  to  the  main  entrance.  The  lawns  shaded  by 
the  orderly  rows  of  tall  trees,  the  placid  terraces 
at  the  water's  edge,  recalled  other  lawns,  other  ter- 
races. Those  visions  of  splendor,  mingling  w^ith 
her  memories,  made  her  Sunday  even  more  mel- 
ancholy. But  it  was  the  return  home  that  was 
most  distressing  to  her. 

The  little  stations  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris  are  so 
terribly  crowded  and  stifling  on  those  Sunday  even- 


The  False  Pearls.  49 

ings  in  summer.  Such  artificial  enjoyment,  such 
idiotic  laughter,  such  doleful  ballads,  sung  in  whis- 
pers by  voices  that  no  longer  have  the  strength  to 
roar !  That  was  the  time  when  Monsieur  Chebe 
was  in  his  element. 

He  would  elbow  his  way  to  the  gate,  scold  about 
the  delay  of  the  train,  declaim  against  the  station- 
agent,  the  company,  the  government ;  say  to  Delo- 
belle  in  a  loud  voice,  so  as  to  be  overheard  by  his 
neighbors : 

"I  say  —  suppose  such  a  thing  as  this  should 
happen  in  America !  "  Which  remark,  thanks  to 
the  expressive  by-play  of  the  illustrious  actor, 
and  to  the  superior  air  with  which  he  replied,  "  I 
believe  you !  "  gav^e  those  who  stood  near  to 
understand  that  these  gentlemen  knew  exactly 
what  would  happen  in  America  in  such  a  case. 
Now,  they  were  equally  and  entirely  ignorant  on 
that  subject ;  but,  in  the  crowd,  their  words  made 
an  impression. 

Sitting  beside  Frantz,  with  half  of  his  bundle  of 
flowers  on  her  knees,  Sidonie  would  seem  to  be 
blotted  out,  as  it  were,  amid  the  uproar,  during  the 
long  wait  for  the  evening  trains.  From  the  station, 
lighted  by  a  single  lamp,  she  could  sec  the  black 
clumps  of  trees  outside,  gashed  here  and  there  by 
the  last  illuminations  of  the  fete,  a  dark  village 
street,  people  constantly  coming  in,  and  a  lantern 
hanging  on  a  deserted  pier. 

From  time  to  time,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
glass  doors,  a  train  would  rush  by  without  stop- 
ping, with  a  shower  of  hot  cinders  and  the  roar  of 
4 


50  Fromont  and  Risler. 

escaping  steam.  Thereupon  a  tempest  of  shouts 
and  stamping  would  arise  in  the  station,  and,  soar- 
ing above  all  the  rest,  the  shrill  treble  of  Monsieur 
Chebe,  shrieking  in  his  sea-gull's  voice:  "Break 
down  the  doors !  break  down  the  doors  !  "  —  a 
thing  that  the  little  man  would  have  taken  good 
care  not  to  do  himself,  as  he  had  a  craven  fear  of 
gendarmes.  In  a  moment  the  storm  would  abate. 
The  tired  women,  their  hair  disarranged  by  the 
wind,  would  fall  asleep  on  the  benches.  There  were 
torn  and  ragged  dresses,  low-necked  white  gowns, 
all  covered  with  dust. 

The  air  they  breathed  consisted  mainly  of  dust. 

It  stood  upon  all  their  clothes,  rose  at  every 
step,  obscured  the  light  of  the  lamp,  vexed  one's 
eyes,  and  raised  a  sort  of  cloud  in  front  of  the 
tired  faces.  The  cars  which  they  entered  at  last 
after  hours  of  waiting  were  saturated  with  it  also. 
Sidonie  would  open  the  window  and  look  out  at 
the  dark  fields,  an  endless  line  of  shadow.  Then, 
like  stars  without  number,  the  first  lanterns  of  the 
outer  boulevards  appeared  near  the  fortifications. 

So  ended  the  ghastly  day  of  rest  of  all  those 
poor  creatures.  The  sight  of  Paris  brought  back 
to  each  one's  mind  the  thought  of  the  morrow's 
toil.  Dismal  as  her  Sunday  had  been,  Sidonie 
began  to  regret  that  it  had  passed.  She  thought 
of  the  rich,  to  whom  all  the  days  of  their  lives 
were  days  of  rest;  and  vaguely,  as  in  a  dream, 
the  long  park  avenues  of  which  she  had  caught 
glimpses  during  the  day  appeared  to  her  thronged 
with  those  happy  ones  of  earth,  strolling  on  the 


The  Fahc  Pearls.  5 1 

fine  caravel,  while  outside  the  gate,  in  the  dust  of 
the  highroad,  the  poor  man's  Sunday  hurried 
swiftly  by,  having  hardly  time  to  pause  a  moment 
to  look  and  envy. 

Such  was  little  Chebe's  life  from  thirteen  to 
seventeen. 

The  years  passed  but  did  not  bring  with  them 
the  slightest  change.  Madame  Chebe's  cashmere 
was  a  little  more  threadbare,  the  little  lilac  dress 
had  undergone  a  few  additional  repairs,  and  that 
was  all.  But,  as  Sidonie  grew  older,  Frantz,  now 
become  a  young  man,  acquired  a  habit  of  gazing 
at  her  silently  with  a  mcUing  expression,  of  paying 
her  loving  attentions  that  were  visible  to  every- 
body, and  were  unnoticed  by  none  save  the  girl 
herself. 

Indeed,  nothing  aroused  the  interest  of  little 
Chebe. 

In  the  work-room  she  performed  her  task  regu- 
larly, silentl)',  without  the  slightest  thought  of  the 
future,  or  of  saving.  All  that  she  did  seemed  to 
be  done  as  if  she  were  waiting  for  something. 

Frantz,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been  working 
for  some  time  with  extraordinary  energy,  the 
ardor  of  those  who  see  something  at  the  end  of 
their  efforts;  so  that,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four, 
he  graduated  second  in  his  class  from  the  Ecolc 
Centrale,  with  the  rank  of  engineer. 

On  that  evening  Risler  had  taken  the  Chebe 
family  to  the  Gymnase,  and  throughout  the  even- 
ing he  and  Madame  Chebe  had  been  making 
signs  and  winking  at  each  other  behind  the  chil- 


52  Frornont  and  Risler, 

dren's  backs.  And  when  they  left  the  theatre 
Madame  Chebe  solemnly  placed  Sidonie's  arm  in 
Frantz's,  as  if  she  would  say  to  the  lovelorn 
youth  !  "  Now,  straighten  matters  out  —  here  *s 
your  chance." 

Thereupon  the  poor  lover  tried  to  straighten 
matters  out. 

It  is  a  long  walk  from  the  Gymnase  to  the 
Marais.  After  a  very  few  steps  the  brilliancy  of 
the  boulevard  is  left  behind,  the  sidewalks  become 
darker  and  darker,  the  passers  more  and  more 
rare.  Frantz  began  by  talking  of  the  play.  He 
was  very  fond  of  comedies  of  that  sort,  in  which 
there  was  plenty  of  sentiment. 

"And  you,  Sidonie?" 

"  Oh  !  as  for  me,  Frantz,  you  know  that  as  long 
as  there  are  fine  dresses  —  " 

In  truth  she  thought  of  nothing  else  at  the 
theatre.  She  was  not  one  of  those  sentimental 
creatures  a  la  Bovary,  who  return  from  the  play 
with  love  phrases  ready-made,  a  conventional  ideal. 
No !  the  theatre  simply  made  her  long  madly  for 
luxury  and  fine  raiment;  she  brought  away  from 
it  nothing  but  new  methods  of  arranging  the  hair, 
and  patterns  of  dresses.  The  new,  exaggerated 
toilets  of  the  actresses,  their  gait,  even  the  spurious 
elegance  of  their  speech,  which  seemed  to  her  of 
the  highest  distinction,  and  with  it  all  the  tawdry 
magnificence  of  the  gilding  and  the  lights,  the 
gaudy  placard  at  the  door,  the  long  line  of  car- 
riages, and  all  the  somewhat  unhealthy  excite- 
ment that  springs  up  about  a  popular  play ;  that 


The  False  Pearls.  53 

was  what  she  loved,  that  was  what  absorbed  her 
thoughts. 

"  How  well  they  acted  their  love-scene  !  "  con- 
tinued the  lover. 

And,  as  he  uttered  that  suggestive  phrase,  he 
bent  fondly  toward  a  little  face  surrounded  by  a 
white  woollen  hood,  from  beneath  which  the  hair 
escaped  in  rebellious  curls. 

Sidonie  sighed  : 

"  Oh !  yes,  the  love-scene.  The  actress  wore 
beautiful  diamonds." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Poor  Frantz 
had  much  difficulty  in  explaining  himself.  The 
words  he  sought  would  not  come,  and  then  too  he 
was  afraid.  He  fixed  the  time  mentally  when  he 
would  speak : 

"When  we  have  passed  Porte  Saint-Denis  — 
when  we  have  left  the  boulevard." 

But  when  the  time  arrived,  Sidonie  began  to 
talk  of  such  indifferent  matters  that  his  declara- 
tion froze  on  his  lips,  or  else  it  was  stopped  by  a 
passing  carriage,  which  enabled  their  elders  to 
overtake  them. 

At  last,  in  the  Marais,  he  suddenly  took 
courage : 

"  Listen  to  me,  Sidonie,  —  I  love  you." 

That  night  the  Dclobelles  had  sat  up  very  late. 

It  was  the  habit  of  those  brave-hearted  women 
to  make  their  working  day  as  long  as  possible,  to 
prolong  it  so  far  into  the  night  that  their  lamp  was 
among  the  last  to  be  extinguished  on  quiet  Rue  de 
Braque.     They  always  sat  up  until  the  great  man 


54  Fromont  and  Risler. 

returned  home,  and  kept  a  toothsome  Httle  supper 
warm  for  him  in  the  ashes  on  the  hearth. 

In  the  days  when  he  was  an  actor  there  was 
some  reason  for  that  custom ;  actors,  being  obHged 
to  dine  early  and  very  sparingly,  have  a  terrible 
gnawing  at  their  vitals  when  they  go  off  the  stage, 
and  usually  eat  when  they  go  home.  Delobelle 
had  not  acted  for  a  long  while ;  but  having,  as  he 
said,  no  right  to  abandon  the  stage,  he  kept  his 
mania  alive  by  clinging  to  a  number  of  the  stroll- 
ing player's  habits,  and  the  supper  on  returning 
home  was  one  of  them,  as  was  his  habit  of  delay- 
ing his  return  until  the  last  footlight  in  the  boule- 
vard theatres  was  extinguished.  To  retire  without 
supping,  at  the  hour  when  everybody  else  supped, 
would  have  been  to  abdicate,  to  abandon  the 
struggle,  and  he  would  not  abandon  it,  sacrebleu  ! 

On  the  evening  in  question  the  actor  had  not 
come  in  and  the  women  were  waiting  for  him, 
talking  as  they  worked,  and  with  great  animation, 
notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  During 
the  whole  evening  they  had  done  nothing  but  talk 
of  Frantz,  of  his  success,  of  the  future  that  lay 
before  him. 

"  Now,"  said  Mamma  Delobelle,  "  the  only  thing 
he  needs  is  to  find  a  good  little  wife." 

That  was  Desiree's  opinion  too.  That  was  all 
that  was  lacking  now  to  Frantz's  happiness,  a 
good  little  wife,  active  and  brave  and  used  to 
work,  who  would  forget  everything  for  him.  And 
if  Desiree  spoke  with  great  assurance,  it  was 
because  she  was  very  intimately  acquainted  with 


The  False  Pearls.  55 

the  woman  who  was  so  well  adapted  to  Frantz 
Rislcr's  needs.  She  was  only  a  year  younger  than 
he,  just  enough  to  make  her  younger  than  her 
husband  and  a  mother  to  him  at  the  same  time. 

Pretty? 

No,  not  exactly,  but  attractive  rather  than  ugly, 
notwithstanding  her  infirmity,  for  she  was  lame, 
poor  child  !  And  then  she  was  shrewd  and  bright, 
and  so  loving !  No  one  but  Desiree  knew  how 
dearly  that  little  woman  loved  Frantz,  and  how 
she  had  thought  of  him  night  and  day  for  years. 
He  had  not  noticed  it  himself,  but  seemed  to  have 
eyes  for  nobody  but  Sidonie,  a  gauiine.  But  no 
matter !  Silent  love  is  so  eloquent,  such  a  mighty 
power  lies  hid  in  restrained  feelings.  Who  knows? 
Perhaps  some  day  or  other  — 

And  the  little  cripple,  leaning  over  her  work, 
started  upon  one  of  those  long  journeys  to  the 
land  of  chimeras  of  which  she  made  so  many  in 
her  invalid's  easy-chair,  with  her  feet  resting  on 
the  motionless  stool ;  one  of  those  wonderful  jour- 
neys from  which  she  always  returned  happy  and 
smiling,  leaning  on  Frantz's  arm  with  all  the  con- 
fidence of  a  beloved  wife.  As  her  fingers  followed 
her  heart's  dream,  the  little  bird  she  had  in  her 
hand  at  the  moment,  smoothing  his  ruffled  wings, 
looked  as  if  he  too  were  of  the  party  and  were 
about  to  fly  far,  far  away,  as  joyous  and  light  of 
heart  as  she. 

Suddenly  the  door  flew  open. 

"I  do  not  disturb  you?"  said  a  triumphant 
voice. 


56  Fro7nont  and  Risler. 

The  mother,  who  was  slightly  drowsy,  suddenly 
raised  her  head. 

"Ah!  it's  Monsieur  Frantz.  Pray  come  in, 
Monsieur  Frantz.  We're  waiting  for  father,  as 
you  see.  These  brigands  of  artists  always  stay 
out  so  late  !  Take  a  seat  —  you  shall  have  supper 
with  him." 

"  Oh !  no,  thanks,"  replied  Frantz,  whose  lips 
were  still  pale  from  the  emotion  he  had  under- 
gone, *'  thanks,  I  can't  stop.  I  saw  a  light  and  I 
just  stepped  in  to  tell  you  —  to  tell  you  some 
great  news  that  will  make  you  very  happy,  because 
I  know  that  you  love  me  —  " 

"Great  God,  what  is  it?" 

"  Monsieur  Frantz  Risler  and  Mademoiselle 
Sidonie  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

"  There  !  did  n't  I  say  that  all  he  needed  was  a 
good  little  wife,"  exclaimed  Mamma  Delobelle, 
rising  and  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck. 

Desiree  had  not  the  strength  to  utter  a  word. 
She  bent  still  lower  over  her  work,  and  as  Frantz's 
eyes  were  fixed  exclusively  upon  his  happiness,  as 
Mamma  Delobelle  did  nothing  but  look  at  the 
clock  to  see  if  her  great  man  would  return  soon, 
no  one  noticed  the  lame  girl's  emotion,  nor  her 
pallor,  nor  the  convulsive  trembling  of  the  little 
bird  that  lay  in  her  hands  with  its  head  thrown 
back,  like  a  bird  with  its  death-wound. 


The  Glow-Worms  of  Savigny.        57 


IV. 

LITTLE  CH£BE'S   STORY  — THE  GLOW-WORMS   OF 
SAVIGNY. 

"  Savigny-sur-Orge. 

**  My  dear  Sidonie,  —  We  were  sitting  at  table  yester- 
day in  the  great  dining-room  which  you  remember,  with 
the  door  wide  open  leading  to  the  terrace,  where  the 
flowers  are  all  in  bloom.  I  was  a  little  bored.  Dear 
grandpapa  had  been  cross  all  the  morning,  and  poor 
mamma  dared  not  say  a  word,  being  held  in  awe  by  those 
frowning  eyebrows  which  have  always  laid  down  the  law 
for  her.  I  was  thinking  what  a  pity  it  was  to  be  so  en- 
tirely alone,  in  the  middle  of  the  summer,  in  such  a  lovely 
spot,  and  that  I  should  be  very  glad,  now  that  I  have  left 
the  convent  and  am  destined  to  pass  whole  seasons  in  the 
country,  to  have,  as  in  the  old  days,  someone  to  run  about 
the  woods  and  paths  with  me. 

"  To  be  sure,  Georges  comes  from  time  to  time  ;  but  he 
always  arrives  very  late,  just  in  time  for  dinner,  and  is  off 
again  with  my  father  in  the  morning  before  I  am  awake. 
And  then  he  is  a  serious-minded  man  now,  is  Monsieur 
Georges.  He  works  at  the  factory,  and  business  cares 
often  bring  the  wrinkles  to  his  brow. 

"  I  had  reached  that  point  in  my  reflections  when  sud- 
denly dear  grandpapa  turns  abruptly  to  me  : 

"  *  Whatever  has  become  of  your  little  friend  Sidonie  ? 
I  would  be  "lad  to  have  her  here  for  a  time.' 


58  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  You  can  imagine  my  delight.  What  happiness  to 
meet  again,  to  renew  the  pleasant  friendship  that  was 
broken  off  by  the  fault  of  life  rather  than  by  our  own ! 
How  many  things  we  shall  have  to  tell  each  other !  You, 
who  alone  had  the  knack  of  driving  the  wrinkles  from 
my  terrible  grandfather's  brow,  will  bring  us  gayety,  and 
I  assure  you  we  need  it. 

'•  This  lovely  Savigny  is  so  deserted  !  Fancy  that  some- 
times in  the  morning  I  choose  to  be  a  little  coquettish.  I 
dress  myself,  I  make  myself  beautiful  with  my  hair  in  curls 
and  a  pretty  gown  \  I  walk  through  all  the  paths,  and  sud- 
denly I  realize  that  I  have  taken  all  this  trouble  for  the 
swans  and  ducks,  my  dog  Kiss,  and  the  cows  who  do  not 
even  turn  to  look  at  me  when  I  pass.  Thereupon,  in  my 
wrath,  I  hurry  home,  put  on  a  stuff  dress  and  busy  my- 
self on  the  farm,  in  the  servants'  quarters,  everywhere. 
And  on  my  word  !  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  ennui 
has  perfected  me,  and  that  I  shall  make  an  excellent 
housekeeper. 

"  Luckily  the  hunting  season  will  soon  be  here  and  I 
rely  upon  that  for  a  little  distraction.  In  the  first  place, 
Georges  and  father,  both  enthusiastic  sportsmen,  will 
come  oftener.  And  then  you  will  be  here,  you  know.  For 
you  will  reply  instantly  that  you  will  come,  won't  you  ? 
Monsieur  Risler  said  not  long  ago  that  you  were  not  well. 
The  air  of  Savigny  will  do  you  worlds  of  good. 

"  Everybody  here  expects  you.  And  I  am  dying  with 
impatience. 

"  Claire." 

Her  letter  written,  Claire  Fromont  donned  a 
great  straw  hat  —  for  the  first  days  of  August 
were  warm  and  glorious  —  and  went  herself  to 
drop  it  in  the  little  box  from  which  the  postman 


The  Gloiv-Wovms  of  Savigny.         59 

collected  the  mail  from  the  chateau  every  morning 
as  he  passed. 

It  was  on  the  edge  of  the  park,  at  a  turn  in  the 
road.  She  paused  a  moment  to  look  at  the  trees 
by  the  roadside,  at  the  neighboring  meadows 
sleeping  in  the  bright  sunlight.  Over  yonder  the 
reapers  were  gathering  the  last  sheaves.  Farther 
on  they  were  ploughing.  But  all  the  melancholy 
of  the  silent  toil  had  vanished,  so  far  as  the  girl 
was  concerned,  so  overjoyed  was  she  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  her  friend  once  more. 

No  breath  came  from  the  high  hills  on  the 
horizon,  no  voice  from  the  tree-tops  to  warn  her 
by  a  presentiment,  to  prevent  her  from  sending 
that  fatal  letter.  And  immediately  upon  her  re- 
turn she  gave  her  attention  to  the  preparation 
of  a  pretty  bedroom  for  Sidonie  adjoining  her 
own. 

The  letter  did  its  errand  faithfully.  From  the 
little  green,  vine-embowered  gate  of  the  chateau,  it 
found  its  way  to  Paris,  and  arrived  that  same  eve- 
ning with  its  Savigny  postmark,  and  impregnated 
with  the  odor  of  the  country,  at  the  fifth  floor 
apartment  on  Rue  de  Braque. 

What  an  event  that  was !  They  read  it  again 
and  again ;  and  for  a  whole  week,  until  Sidonie's 
departure,  it  lay  on  the  mantel-shelf  beside 
Madame  Ch^bc's  treasures,  the  clock  under  a 
glass  globe  and  the  hvmpire  cups.  To  Sidonie  it 
was  like  a  wonderful  romance  filled  with  tales  of 
enchantment  and  promises,  which  she  read  without 
opening  it,  simply  by  gazing  at  the  white  envelope 


6o  Fromout  and  Rislcr. 

whereon  Claire  Fromont's  monogram  was  engraved 
in  relief. 

Little  she  thought  of  marriage  now.  The  im- 
portant question  was,  What  dress  should  she  wear 
to  the  chateau  ?  She  must  give  her  whole  mind  to 
that,  to  cutting  and  planning,  trying  on  dresses, 
devising  new  ways  of  arranging  her  hair. —  Poor 
Frantz  !  How  heavy  his  heart  was  made  by  these 
preparations !  That  visit  to  Savigny,  which  he 
had  tried  vainly  to  oppose,  would  cause  a  still 
further  postponement  of  their  wedding,  which 
Sidonie  — -  why,  he  did  not  know  —  persisted  in 
postponing  from  day  to  day.  He  could  not  go  to 
see  her ;  and  when  she  was  once  there,  in  the 
midst  of  festivities  and  pleasures,  who  could  say 
how  long  she  would  remain? 

The  lover  in  his  despair  always  went  to  the 
Delobelles  to  confide  his  sorrows,  but  he  never 
noticed  how  quickly  Desiree  rose  as  soon  as  he 
entered,  to  make  room  for  him  by  her  side  at  the 
work-table,  and  how  she  at  once  sat  down  again, 
with  cheeks  as  red  as  fire  and  gleaming  eyes. 

For  some  days  past  they  had  ceased  to  work  at 
birds  and  insects  for  ornament.  The  mother  and 
daughter  were  hemming  pink  flounces  destined  for 
Sidonie's  dress,  and  the  little  cripple  had  never 
plied  her  needle  with  such  good  heart. 

In  truth  little  Desiree  was  not  Delobelle's  daugh- 
ter to  no  purpose. 

She  inherited  her  father's  faculty  of  retaining 
his  illusions,  of  hoping  on  to  the  end  and  even 
beyond. 


The  Glow-Worms  of  Savigiiy.        6i 

While  Frantz  was  telling  his  tales  of  woe,  D6si- 
r^e  was  thinking  that,  when  Sidonic  was  gone,  he 
would  come  every  day,  if  it  were  only  to  talk 
about  the  absent  one;  that  she  would  have  him 
there  by  her  side,  that  they  would  sit  up  together 
waiting  for  "  father,"  and  that,  perhaps,  some  eve- 
ning, as  he  sat  looking  at  her,  he  would  discover 
the  difference  there  is  between  the  woman  who 
loves  you  and  the  one  who  simply  allows  herself 
to  be  loved. 

Thereupon  the  thought  that  every  stitch  taken 
in  the  dress  tended  to  hasten  the  departure  which 
she  anticipated  with  such  impatience  imparted 
extraordinary  activity  to  her  needle,  and  the  un- 
happy lover  ruefully  watched  the  flounces  and 
ruffles  perceptibly  piling  up  about  her,  like  little 
white-capped  waves. 

When  the  pink  dress  was  finished.  Mademoiselle 
Ch^be  started  for  Savigny. 

Monsieur  Gardinois's  chateau  was  built  in  the 
valley  of  the  Orge,  on  the  bank  of  that  capri- 
ciously lovely  stream,  with  its  windmills,  its  little 
islands,  its  milldams,  and  its  broad  greenswards 
that  die  at  its  shores. 

The  chateau,  an  old  Louis  Quinze  structure,  low 
in  reality,  although  made  to  seem  high  by  the 
pointed  roof,  had  a  most  depressing  aspect,  an 
aspect  suggestive  of  aristocratic  antiquity:  broad 
steps,  balconies  with  rusty  balustrades,  old  urns 
marred  by  time,  wherein  the  flowers  stood  out  viv- 
idly against  the  reddish  stone.  As  far  as  the  eye 
could  see,  the  walls  stretched  away,  decayed  and 


62  Fromont  and  Risler. 

crumbling,  descending  gently  to  the  stream.  The 
chateau  overlooked  them  with  its  high  slated  roofs, 
the  farmhouse  with  its  red  tiles,  and  the  superb 
park  with  its  lindens,  its  ash  trees,  its  poplars,  its 
chestnuts  growing  confusedly  together  in  a  dense 
black  mass,  cut  here  and  there  by  the  arched 
openings  of  the  paths. 

But  the  charm  of  the  old  estate  was  the  water, 
the  water  which  enlivened  its  silence,  which  gave 
character  to  its  beautiful  views.  There  were  at 
Savigny,  to  say  nothing  of  the  river,  springs, 
fountains,  ponds,  in  which  the  sun  sank  to  rest  in 
all  his  glory ;  and  they  formed  a  suitable  setting 
for  that  venerable  house,  green  and  mossy  as  it 
was,  and  slightly  worn  away,  like  a  stone  on  the 
edge  of  a  brook. 

Unluckily,  at  Savigny,  as  in  most  of  those 
gorgeous  Parisian  summer  palaces,  which  the  par- 
venus in  commerce  and  speculation  have  made 
their  prey,  the  chatelains  were  not  in  harmony 
with  the  chateau. 

Since  he  had  purchased  his  chateau,  old  Gar- 
dinois  had  done  nothing  but  mar  the  beauty  of  the 
beautiful  property  chance  had  placed  in  his  hands, 
cut  down  trees  "  for  the  view,"  fill  his  park  with 
rough  obstructions  to  keep  out  trespassers,  and 
reserve  all  his  solicitude  for  a  magnificent  kitchen 
garden,  which,  as  it  produced  fruit  and  vegetables 
in  abundance,  seemed  to  him  more  like  his  own 
land,  the  peasant's  land. 

As  for  the  great  salons,  where  the  panels  with 
paintings  of  famous  subjects  were  fading  away  in 


The  Gloiu-  Worms  of  Saviguy.        63 

the  autumnal  fogs,  as  for  the  ponds  overrun  with 
water-lilies,  the  grottoes,  the  rock-bridges,  he 
cared  for  them  only  because  of  the  admiration 
of  visitors,  and  because  of  such  elements  was 
composed  that  thing  which  so  flattered  his  vanity 
as  an  ex-dealer  in  cattle,  —  a  chateau  ! 

Being  already  advanced  in  years,  unable  to  hunt 
or  fish,  he  passed  his  time  superintending  the 
most  trivial  details  of  that  extensive  property. 
The  grain  that  was  given  the  hens,  the  price  of 
the  last  load  of  the  second  crop  of  ha}%  the  num- 
ber of  bales  of  straw  stored  in  a  magnificent 
circular  granary,  furnished  him  with  subjects  for 
scolding  for  a  whole  day ;  and  certain  it  is  that, 
when  one  contemplated  from  a  distance  that  lovely 
estate  of  Savigny,  the  chateau  on  the  hillside,  the 
river  flowing  at  its  feet  like  a  mirror,  the  high  ter- 
races darkened  by  ivy,  the  supporting  wall  of  the 
park  following  the  majestic  slope  of  the  ground, 
one  would  never  have  suspected  the  proprietor's 
niggardliness  and  meanness  of  spirit. 

In  the  idleness  consequent  upon  his  wealth. 
Monsieur  Gardinois,  being  sadly  bored  at  Paris, 
lived  at  Savigny  throughout  the  year,  and  the 
Fromonts  kept  him  company  during  the  summer. 

Madame  Fromont  was  a  mild,  unintelligent  wo- 
man, whom  her  fatlier's  brutal  despotism  had  early 
moulded  to  passi\'e  obedience  for  life.  She  main- 
tained the  same  attitude  with  her  husband,  whose 
constant  kindness  and  indulgence  had  never  suc- 
ceeded in  triumphing  over  that  humiliated,  taci- 
turn nature,  indifferent  to  everything,  and,  in  some 


64  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

sense,  irresponsible.  Having  passed  her  life  with 
no  knowledge  of  business,  she  had  become  rich 
without  knowing  it  and  without  the  slightest  desire 
to  take  advantage  of  it.  Her  fine  apartments  in 
Paris,  her  father's  magnificent  chateau,  made  her 
uncomfortable.  She  occupied  as  small  a  place  as 
possible  in  both,  filling  her  life  with  a  single  pas- 
sion, order  —  a  fantastic,  abnormal  sort  of  order, 
which  consisted  in  brushing,  wiping,  dusting  and 
polishing  mirrors,  gilding  and  door-knobs,  with 
her  own   hand,  from  morning  till   night. 

When  she  had  nothing  to  clean,  the  strange 
creature  would  attack  her  rings,  her  watch  chain, 
her  brooches,  scrubbing  the  cameos  and  pearls,  and 
by  dint  of  polishing  the  combination  of  her  own 
name  and  her  husband's  she  had  effaced  all  the 
letters  of  both.  Her  fixed  idea  followed  her  to 
Savigny.  She  picked  up  the  dead  wood  in  the 
paths,  scratched  the  moss  from  the  benches  with 
the  end  of  her  umbrella,  and  would  have  liked  to 
dust  the  leaves  and  sweep  down  the  old  trees;  and 
often,  in  the  train,  she  looked  with  envy  at  the 
little  villas  standing  in  a  line  along  the  track,  white 
and  clean,  with  their  gleaming  utensils,  the  pewter 
ball,  and  the  little  oblong  gardens,  which  resem- 
ble drawers  in  a  commode.  Those  were  her  type 
of  country-house. 

Monsieur  Fromont,  who  came  only  occasionally 
and  was  always  absorbed  by  his  business,  enjoyed 
Savigny  little  more  than  she  did.  Claire  alone 
was  really  at  home  in  that  lovely  park.  She  was 
familiar  with  its  tiniest  shrub.     Being  obliged  to 


The  Glow- Worms  of  Savigny.         65 

provide  her  own  entertainment,  like  all  only  chil- 
dren, she  had  become  attached  to  certain  walks, 
watched  the  flowers  bloom,  had  her  favorite  path, 
her  favorite  tree,  her  favorite  bench  for  reading. 
The  dinner-bell  always  surprised  her  far  away  in  the 
park.  She  would  come  to  the  table,  out  of  breath 
but  happy,  flushed  with  the  fresh  air.  The  shadow 
of  the  hornbeams,  by  dint  of  stealing  over  that 
youthful  brow,  had  imprinted  a  sort  of  gentle  mel- 
ancholy there,  and  the  deep  dark  green  of  the 
ponds,  crossed  by  vague  beams,  was  reflected  in 
her  eyes. 

Those  lovely  surroundings  had  in  very  truth 
shielded  her  from  the  vulgarity,  the  abjectness  of 
the  persons  about  her.  Monsieur  Gardinois  might 
deplore  in  her  presence,  for  hours  at  a  time,  the 
perversity  of  tradesmen  and  servants,  or  make  an 
estimate  of  what  was  being  stolen  from  him  per 
month,  per  week,  per  day,  per  minute ;  Madame 
Fromont  might  enumerate  her  grievances  against 
the  mice,  the  maggots,  the  dust,  the  dampness,  all 
desperately  bent  upon  destroying  her  property, 
and  engaged  in  a  conspiracy  against  her  ward- 
robes ;  not  a  word  of  their  absurd  talk  remained 
in  Claire's  mind.  A  run  around  the  lawn,  an 
hour's  reading  on  the  river-bank  restored  the 
tranquillity  of  that  noble  and  intensely  active 
mind. 

Her  grandfather  looked  upon  her  as  a  strange 

creature,  altogether  out  of  place  in  his  family.     As 

a  child  she   annoyed   him  with  her  great  honest 

eyes,  her  straightforwardness  on  all  occasions,  and 

5 


66  Fromont  and  Risler. 

also  because  he  did  not  find  in  her  a  second  edi- 
tion of  his  own  passive  and  submissive  daughter. 

"That  child  will  be  a  proud  chit  and  an  original 
like  her  father,"  he  would  say  in  his  ugly  moods. 

How  much  better  he  liked  that  little  Chebe  girl 
who  used  to  come  now  and  then  and  play  in  the 
avenues  at  Savigny !  In  her  at  least  he  detected 
a  nature  of  the  common  people  like  his  own,  with 
a  sprinkhng  of  ambition  and  envy,  suggested  even 
in  those  early  days  by  a  certain  little  smile  at  the 
corner  of  the  mouth.  Moreover,  the  child  exhib- 
ited an  ingenuous  amazement  and  admiration  in 
presence  of  his  wealth,  which  flattered  his  parvenu 
pride ;  and  sometimes,  when  he  teased  her,  she 
would  break  out  with  the  droll  phrases  of  a  Paris 
gamin,  phrases  redolent  of  the  faubourgs,  seasoned 
by  her  pretty,  piquant  face,  inclined  to  pallor, 
which  not  even  triviality  could  deprive  of  its  dis- 
tinction.    So  the  goodman  had  never  forgotten  her. 

On  this  occasion  above  all,  when  Sidonie  arrived 
at  Savigny  after  her  long  absence,  with  her  fluffy 
hair,  her  graceful  figure,  her  wide-awake,  mobile 
face,  the  whole  heightened  by  mannerisms  smack- 
ing somewhat  of  the  shop-girl,  she  produced  a 
decided  effect.  Old  Gardinois,  wondering  greatly 
to  see  a  tall  young  woman  in  place  of  the  child 
he  was  expecting  to  see,  considered  her  prettier 
and,  above  all,  better  dressed  than  Claire. 

It  was  a  fact  that,  when  Mademoiselle  Chebe  had 
left  the  train  and  was  seated  in  the  great  caleche 
from  the  chateau,  she  did  not  make  a  bad  appear- 
ance ;  but  she  lacked  those  things  that  constituted 


The  Glow-  Worms  of  Savigny.        67 

her  friend's  chief  beauty  and  charm  —  the  carriage, 
the  contempt  for  poses,  and,  more  than  all  else, 
the  mental  tranquillity.  Her  prettiness  was  not 
unlike  her  dresses,  of  inexpensive  materials,  but 
cut  according  to  the  style  of  the  day  —  rags,  if  you 
will,  but  rags  of  which  fashion,  that  ridiculous  but 
charming  fairy,  had  regulated  the  color,  the  trim- 
ming and  the  shape.  Paris  has  pretty  faces  made 
expressly  for  costumes  of  that  sort,  very  easy  to 
dress  becomingly,  for  the  very  reason  that  they 
are  of  no  type,  and  Mademoiselle  Sidonie's  was 
one  of  those  faces. 

What  bliss  was  hers  when  the  carriage  entered 
the  long  avenue,  bordered  with  velvety  grass  and 
primeval  elms,  and  at  the  end  Savigny  awaiting 
her  with  its  great  gate  wide  open.  From  that 
day  she  led  the  enchanted  life  of  which  she  had 
dreamed  so  long.  Luxury  was  before  her  in  all 
its  forms,  from  the  magnificent  salons,  from  the 
high-studded  sleeping  apartments,  from  the  splen- 
dor of  the  greenhouses  and  stables,  down  to  those 
petty  details  in  which  everything  seems  to  be  con- 
densed, like  those  exquisite  perfumes  of  which  a 
single  drop  is  sufficient  to  permeate  a  whole 
room,  the  bunches  of  flowers  strewn  over  the 
table-cloth,  the  dignified  bearing  of  the  servants, 
the  doleful  and  languid  "Order  the  carriage"  of 
Madame  Fromont. 

And  how  thoroughly  at  ease  she  felt  amid  all 
those  refinements  of  wealth  !  How  perfectly  that 
sort  of  life  suited  her !  It  seemed  to  her  that  she 
had  never  known  any  other. 


68  Frornont  and  Risler. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  intoxication,  ar- 
rived a  letter  from  Frantz,  which  brought  her 
back  to  the  realities  of  her  life,  to  her  wretched 
fate  as  the  future  wife  of  a  government  clerk, 
which  transported  her,  whether  she  would  or  no, 
to  the  mean  little  apartment  they  would  occupy 
some  day  at  the  top  of  some  dismal  house, 
whose  heavy  atmosphere,  dense  with  privation, 
she  seemed  already  to  breathe. 

Should  she  break  her  engagement? 

She  certainly  could  do  it,  as  she  had  given  no 
other  pledge  than  her  word.  But  when  he  had 
left  her,  who  could  say  that  she  would  not  wish 
him  back? 

In  that  little  brain,  turned  by  ambition,  the 
strangest  ideas  jostled  one  another.  Sometimes, 
while  grandfather  Gardinois,  who  had  laid  aside 
in  her  honor  his  old-fashioned  hunting  jackets 
and  swanskin  waistcoats,  was  jesting  with  her, 
amusing  himself  by  contradicting  her  in  order  to 
draw  out  a  sharp  retort,  she  would  gaze  stead- 
fastly, coldly  into  his  eyes,  without  replying. 
Ah !  if  only  he  were  ten  years  younger !  But 
the  thought  of  becoming  Madame  Gardinois  did 
not  long  occupy  her.  A  new  personage,  a  new 
hope  came  into  her  hfe. 

After  Sidonie's  arrival,  Georges  Fromont,  who 
was  hardly  seen  at  Savigny  except  on  Sundays, 
adopted  the  habit  of  coming  to  dinner  almost 
every  day. 

He  was  a  tall,  slender,  pale  youth,  of  refined 
bearing.     Having    no    father    or    mother,   he    had 


The  Glow-JVornis  of  Savigny.        69 

been  brought  up  by  his  uncle,  Monsieur  Fre- 
mont, and  was  looked  to  by  him  to  succeed  him 
in  business,  and  probably  to  become  Claire's  hus- 
band as  well.  That  ready-made  future  did  not 
arouse  his  enthusiasm.  In  the  first  place  busi- 
ness bored  him.  As  for  his  cousin,  thc-e  existed 
between  them  the  intimate  good-fellowship  of  an 
education  in  common,  and  mutual  confidence,  but 
nothing  more,  at  least  on  his  side. 

With  Sidonie,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  exceed- 
ingly embarrassed  and  shy,  and  at  the  same  time 
desirous  of  producing  an  effect,  —  a  totally  differ- 
ent man,  in  short.  She  had  just  the  spurious 
charm,  a  little  free,  which  was  calculated  to  at- 
tract that  coxcombish  nature,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  she  discovered  the  impression  that  she  pro- 
duced upon  him. 

When  the  two  girls  were  walking  together  in  the 
park,  it  was  always  Sidonie  who  remembered  that 
it  was  time  for  the  train  from  Paris.  They  would 
go  together  to  the  gate  to  meet  the  travellers,  and 
Georges's  first  glance  was  always  for  Mademoiselle 
Chcbc,  who  remained  a  little  behind  her  friend, 
but  with  the  poses  and  airs  that  go  half-way  to 
meet  the  eyes.  That  manoeuvring  between  them 
lasted  some  time.  They  did  not  mention  love,  but 
all  the  words,  all  the  smiles  they  exchanged  were 
full  of  unspoken  avowals. 

One  cloudy  and  lowering  summer  evening,  when 
the  two  friends  had  left  the  table  as  soon  as  din- 
ner was  at  an  end  and  were  walking  in  the  long 
tree-lined    avenue,  Georges  joined    them.      They 


70  Fromont  and  Risler. 

were  talking  upon  indifferent  subjects,  crunching 
the  gravel  beneath  their  lagging  footsteps,  when 
Madame  Fromont's  voice  called  Claire  from  the 
chateau.  Georges  and  Sidonie  were  left  alone. 
They  continued  to  walk  along  the  avenue,  guided 
by  the  uncertain  whiteness  of  the  gravel,  without 
speaking  or  drawing  nearer  to  each  other. 

A  warm  wind  rustled  among  the  leaves.  The 
ruffled  surface  of  the  pond  lapped  softly  against 
the  arches  of  the  little  bridge ;  and  the  blossoms 
of  the  acacias  and  lindens,  detached  by  the  breeze, 
whirled  about  in  circles,  perfuming  the  electricity- 
laden  air.  They  felt  as  if  they  were  surrounded  by 
an  atmosphere  of  storm,  vibrant  and  penetrating. 
Dazzling  flashes  of  heat  passed  before  their  troubled 
eyes,  like  those  that  played  along  the  horizon. 

"  Oh  !  what  lovely  glow-worms  !  "  exclaimed  the 
girl,  embarrassed  by  the  oppressive  silence  broken 
by  so  many  mysterious  sounds. 

On  the  edge  of  the  greensward  a  blade  of  grass 
here  and  there  was  illuminated  by  a  tiny  green 
flickering  light.  She  stooped  to  take  one  on  her 
glove.  He  knelt  close  beside  her ;  and  as  they 
leaned  down  to  the  level  of  the  grass,  their  hair 
and  cheeks  touching,  they  gazed  at  each  other  for 
a  moment  by  the  light  of  the  glow-worms.  How 
weird  and  fascinating  she  seemed  to  him  in  that 
green  light,  which  shone  upon  her  face  and  died 
away  in  the  fine  network  of  her  waving  hair  !  He 
had  put  his  arm  about  her  waist,  and  suddenly, 
feeling  that  she  abandoned  herself  to  him,  he 
clasped  her  in  a  long  passionate  embrace.  j 


The  Glow- Worms  of  Savigiiy.         71 

"What  arc  you  looking  for?"  asked  Claire, 
standing  in  the  shadow  behind  them. 

Taken  by  surprise,  with  a  choking  sensation  in  his 
throat,  Georges  trembled  so  that  he  could  not  reply. 
Sidonie,  on  the  other  hand,  rose  with  the  utmost 
calmness,  and  said  as  she  smoothed  her  skirt: 

"  It 's  the  glow-worms.  See  how  many  of  them 
there  are  to-night.     And  how  they  sparkle." 

Her  eyes  also  sparkled  with  extraordinary 
brilliancy. 

"It's  the  storm,  I  suppose,"  murmured  Georges, 
still  trembling. 

The  storm  was  close  at  hand.  At  brief  intervals 
great  clouds  of  leaves  and  dust  whirled  from  one 
end  of  the  avenue  to  the  other.  They  walked  on 
a  few  steps,  then  all  three  returned  to  the  salon. 
The  young  women  took  their  work,  Georges  tried 
to  read  a  newspaper,  while  Madame  Fromont 
polished  her  rings  and  Monsieur  Gardinois  and  his 
son-in-law  played  billiards  in  the  adjoining  room. 

How  long  that  evening  seemed  to  Sidonie  !  She 
had  but  one  wish,  to  be  alone,  alone  with  her 
thoughts. 

But,  in  the  silence  of  her  little  bed-room,  when 
she  had  blown  out  the  light,  which  interferes  with 
dreams  by  casting  too  bright  a  light  upon  the  real- 
ity, what  schemes,  what  transports  of  delight ! 
Georges  loved  her,  Georges  Fromont,  the  heir  of 
the  factory.  They  would  marry;  she  would  be 
rich.  For,  in  that  merccnar)-  little  heart  the  first 
kiss  of  love  had  awakened  no  ideas  save  those  of 
ambition  and  a  life  of  luxury. 


72  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

To  assure  herself  that  her  lover  was  sincere,  she 
tried  to  recall  the  scene  under  the  trees  to  its  most 
trifling  details,  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  the  ardor 
of  his  embrace,  the  oaths  uttered  brokenly,  mouth 
to  mouth,  in  that  vaporous  light  shed  by  the 
glow-worms,  which  one  solemn  moment  had  estab- 
lished forever  in  her  heart. 

Oh  !  the  glow-worms  of  Savigny  ! 

All  night  long  they  twinkled  like  stars  before  her 
closed  eyes.  The  park  was  full  of  them,  to  the 
farthest  limits  of  its  darkest  paths.  There  were 
clusters  of  them  all  along  the  lawns,  on  the  trees, 
in  the  shrubbery.  The  fine  gravel  of  the  avenues, 
the  waves  of  the  river,  emitted  green  sparks,  and  all 
those  microscopic  flashes  formed  a  sort  of  holiday 
illumination  in  which  Savigny  seemed  to  be  en- 
veloped in  her  honor,  to  celebrate  the  betrothal  of 
Georges  and  Sidonie. 

When  she  rose  the  next  day,  her  plan  was 
formed.  Georges  loved  her;  that  was  certain. 
Did  he  think  of  marrying  her?  She  had  a  suspi- 
cion that  he  did  not,  the  shrewd  minx  !  But  that 
did  not  frighten  her.  She  felt  strong  enough  to 
triumph  over  that  childish  nature,  at  once  weak 
and  passionate.  She  had  only  to  resist  him,  and 
that  is  what  she  did. 

For  some  days  she  was  cold  and  indifferent,  wil- 
fully blind  and  devoid  of  memory.  He  tried  to 
speak  to  her,  to  renew  the  blissful  moment,  but 
she  avoided  him,  always  placing  someone  between 
them. 

Then  he  wrote. 


The  Glow-Worms  of  Savigny.         73 

He  carried  his  letters  himself  to  a  hollow  in  the 
rock  near  a  clear  spring  called  the  "  Phantom," 
which  was  in  the  outskirts  of  the  park,  sheltered 
by  a  thatched  roof.  Sidonie  considered  that  a 
charming  episode.  In  the  evening  she  must  in- 
vent some  falsehood,  a  pretext  of  some  sort  for 
going  to  the  "  Phantom  "  all  alone.  The  shadow 
of  the  trees  across  the  path,  the  awesomencss  of 
the  night,  the  rapid  walk,  the  excitement,  made  her 
heart  beat  deliciously.  She  would  find  the  letter 
saturated  with  dew,  with  the  intense  cold  of  the 
spring,  and  so  white  in  the  moonlight  that  she 
would  quickly  hide  it  for  fear  of  being  surprised. 

And  then,  when  she  was  alone,  what  joy  to  open 
it,  to  decipher  those  magic  characters,  those  words 
of  love  w'hich  swam  before  her  eyes,  surrounded 
by  dazzling  blue  and  yellow  circles,  as  if  she  were 
reading  her  letter  in  the  bright  sunlight. 

"  I  love  you.  Love  me  "  —  wrote  Georges  in 
every  conceivable  form. 

At  first  she  did  not  reply ;  but  when  she  felt  that 
he  was  fairly  caught,  wholly  in  the  toils,  she  de- 
clared herself  concisely : 

"  I  will  love  no  one  but  my  husband." 

Ah !  she  was  a  true  woman  already,  was  little 
Chebe. 


74  Fromont  and  Risler. 


V. 

HOW   LITTLE   CH^BE'S    STORY   ENDED. 

Meanwhile  September  arrived. 

The  hunting  season  brought  together  a  large, 
noisy,  vulgar  party  at  the  chateau.  There  w^ere 
long  repasts  at  which  the  wealthy  bourgeois  lin- 
gered slothfully  and  wearily,  prone  to  fall  asleep 
like  peasants.  They  went  in  carriages  to  meet  the 
returning  hunters  in  the  cool  air  of  the  autumn 
twilight.  The  mist  arose  from  the  fields,  from 
which  the  crops  had  been  gathered ;  and  while  the 
frightened  game  skimmed  along  the  stubble  with 
plaintive  cries,  the  darkness  seemed  to  emerge 
from  the  forests  whose  dark  masses  increased  in 
size,  spreading  out  over  the  fields. 

The  caleche  lamps  were  lighted,  the  hoods 
raised,  and  they  drove  quickly  homeward  with  the 
fresh  air  blowing  in  their  faces.  The  dining-hall, 
brilliantly  illuminated,  was  filled  with  gayety  and 
laughter. 

Claire  Fromont,  embarrassed  by  the  vulgarity 
of  those  about  her,  hardly  spoke  at  all.  Sidonie 
shone  her  brightest.  The  ride  had  given  anima- 
tion to  her  pale  complexion  and  Parisian  eyes. 
She  knew  how  to  laugh,  understood  a  little  too 


Holu  Lit  lie  C/iC'jcs  Slory  Ended.       75 

much,  perhaps,  and  seemed  to  the  guests  the  only 
woman  in  the  party.  Her  success  completed 
Georgcs's  intoxication;  but  as  his  advances  be- 
came more  pronounced,  she  showed  more  and 
more  reserve.  Thereupon  he  determined  that  she 
should  be  his  wife.  He  swore  it  to  himself,  with 
the  exaggerated  emphasis  of  weak  characters,  who 
seem  always  to  combat  beforehand  the  difficulties 
to  which  they  know  that  they  will  yield  some  day. 

It  was  the  happiest  moment  of  little  Chebe's 
life.  Even  aside  from  any  ambitious  project,  her 
coquettish,  false  nature  found  a  strange  fascination 
in  this  love  intrigue,  mysteriously  carried  on  amid 
banquets  and  merrymakings. 

No  one  about  them  suspected  anything.  Claire 
was  at  that  healthy  and  delightful  period  of  youth 
when  the  mind,  partly  open,  clings  to  the  things 
it  knows  with  blind  confidence,  in  utter  ignorance 
of  treachery  and  falsehood.  Monsieur  Fromont 
thought  of  nothing  but  his  business.  His  wife 
cleaned  her  jewels  with  frenzied  energy.  Only 
old  Gardinois  and  his  little  gimlet-like  eyes  were 
to  be  feared ;  but  Sidonie  entertained  him,  and 
even  if  he  had  discovered  anything,  he  was  not 
the  man  to  interfere  with  her  future. 

Her  hour  of  triumph  was  at  hand,  when  a 
sudden,  unforeseen  disaster  blasted  her  hopes. 

One  Sunday  morning  Monsieur  Fromont  was 
brought  back  mortally  wounded  from  a  hunting 
expedition.  A  bullet  intended  for  a  deer  had 
pierced  his  temple.  The  chateau  was  turned 
topsy-turvy. 


76  Fromont  and  Risler. 

All  the  hunters,  among  them  the  unknown 
bungler,  started  in  haste  for  Paris.  Claire,  wild 
with  grief,  entered  the  room  where  her  father  lay 
on  his  death-bed,  there  to  remain ;  and  Risler, 
being  advised  of  the  catastrophe,  came  to  take 
Sidonie  home. 

On  the  night  before  her  departure  she  had  a 
final  meeting  with  Georges  at  the  "Phantom,"  — 
a  farewell  meeting,  painful  and  stealthy,  and  made 
solemn  by  the  proximity  of  death.  They  swore, 
however,  to  love  each  other  always ;  they  agreed 
upon  a  method  of  writing  to  each  other.  And 
they  parted. 

It  was  a  doleful  journey  home. 

She  returned  abruptly  to  her  everyday  life, 
escorted  by  the  despairing  grief  of  Risler,  to  whom 
his  dear  master's  death  was  an  irreparable  loss. 
On  her  arrival,  she  must  needs  describe  her  visit 
to  the  smallest  detail ;  discuss  the  inmates  of  the 
chateau,  the  guests,  the  parties,  the  dinners,  and 
the  final  catastrophe.  What  torture  for  her,  when, 
absorbed  as  she  was  by  a  single,  never-varying 
thought,  she  had  so  much  need  of  silence  and 
solitude !  But  there  was  something  even  more 
terrible  than  that. 

On  the  first  day  after  her  return  Frantz  resumed 
his  former  place ;  and  the  glances  with  which  he 
followed  her,  the  words  he  addressed  to  her  alone, 
seemed  to  her  unreasonable  beyond  endurance. 

Despite  all  his  shyness  and  distrust  of  himself, 
the  poor  fellow  believed  that  he  had  some  rights 
as    an   accepted    and    impatient   lover,    and    little 


How  Little  Cliches  Story  Ended      'jy 

Chcbc  was  obliged  to  emerge  from  her  dreams  to 
reply  to  that  creditor,  and  to  postpone  once  more 
the  maturity  of  his  claim. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when  indecision 
ceased  to  be  possible. 

She  had  promised  to  marry  Frantz  when  he  had 
a  position ;  and  now  he  was  offered  an  engineer's 
berth  in  the  South,  at  the  smelting  furnaces  of 
Grand'  Combe.  That  was  sufficient  for  the  support 
of  a  modest  establishment. 

There  was  no  way  of  avoiding  the  question. 

She  must  either  hold  to  her  promise  or  invent 
an  excuse  for  breaking  it.  But  what  excuse  could 
she  invent? 

In  that  pressing  emergency,  she  thought  of  De- 
sirtfe.  Although  the  little  lame  girl  had  never 
confided  in  her,  she  knew  her  great  love  for  Frantz. 
Long  ago  she  had  detected  it,  with  her  coquette's 
eyes,  bright  and  changing  mirrors,  which  reflected 
all  the  thoughts  of  others  without  betraying  any 
of  her  own.  It  may  be  that  the  thought  that 
another  woman  loved  her  betrothed  had  made 
Frantz's  love  more  tolerable  to  her  at  first;  and, 
just  as  we  place  statues  on  tombstones  to  make 
them  less  sad,  Dcsirce's  pretty  little  pale  face  at 
the  threshold  of  that  uninviting  future  had  made  it 
seem  less  forbidding  to  her. 

Now  it  provided  her  with  a  simple  and  honor- 
able pretext  for  freeing  herself  from  her  promise. 

"No  !  I  tell  you,  mamma,"  she  said  to  Madame 
Chebe  one  day,  "  I  will  never  consent  to  make  a 
friend  like  her  unhappy.     I  should  suffer  too  much 


78  Fromont  and  Risler. 

from  remorse,  —  poor  Desiree  !  Have  n't  you  no- 
ticed how  badly  she  looks  since  I  came  home ; 
what  an  imploring  way  she  has  of  looking  at  me? 
No,  I  won't  cause  her  that  sorrow ;  I  won't  take 
away  her  Frantz." 

Even  while  she  admired  her  daughter's  generous 
spirit,  Madame  Chebe  looked  upon  that  as  rather 
an  exaggerated  sacrifice,  and  remonstrated  with 
her, 

"Take  care,  my  child;  we  ain't  rich.  A  hus- 
band like  Frantz  don't  turn  up  every  day." 

"  Very  well !  then  I  won't  marry  at  all,"  declared 
Sidonie  flatly,  and,  deeming  her  pretext  an  excel- 
lent one,  she  clung  persistently  to  it.  Nothing 
could  shake  her  determination,  neither  the  tears 
shed  by  Frantz,  who  was  exasperated  by  her 
refusal  to  fulfil  her  promise,  enveloped  as  it  was 
in  vague  reasons  which  she  would  not  even  explain 
to  him,  nor  the  entreaties  of  Risler,  in  whose  ear 
Madame  Chebe  had  mysteriously  mumbled  her 
daughter's  reasons,  and  who,  in  spite  of  everything 
could  not  but  admire  such  a  sacrifice. 

"  Don't  accuse  her,  I  tell  you  !  She  's  an  anchel!  " 
he  said  to  his  brother,  striving  to  soothe  him. 

"  Ah !  yes,  she  is  an  angel,"  assented  Madame 
Chebe  with  a  sigh,  so  that  the  poor  betrayed  lover 
had  not  even  the  right  to  complain.  Driven  to 
desperation,  he  determined  to  leave  Paris,  and  as 
Grand'  Combe  seemed  too  near  in  his  frenzied 
longing  for  flight,  he  asked  and  obtained  an  ap- 
pointment as  overseer  on  the  Suez  Canal  at  Ismailia. 
He  went  away  without  knowing  or  caring  to  know 


How  Little  Cliebes  Story  Ended      79 

aught  of  Dcsirce's  love ;  and  yet,  when  he  went 
to  bid  her  farewell,  the  dear  little  cripple  looked 
up  into  his  face  with  her  pretty,  bashful  eyes,  in 
which  were  plainly  written  the  words : 

"I  love  you,  if  she  does  not." 

But  Frantz  Rislcr  did  not  know  how  to  read 
what  was  written  in  those  eyes. 

Happily  the  hearts  that  are  accustomed  to  suffer 
have  an  infinite  store  of  patience.  When  her 
friend  had  gone,  the  lame  girl,  with  her  charming 
morsel  of  illusion,  inherited  from  her  father  and 
refined  by  her  woman's  nature,  returned  bravely 
to  her  work,  saying  to  herself: 

"  I  will  wait  for  him." 

And  thereafter  she  spread  the  wings  of  her  birds 
to  their  fullest  extent,  as  if  they  were  all  going,  one 
after  another,  to  Ismailia  in  Egypt.  And  that  was 
a  long  distance  ! 

Before  sailing  from  Marseilles,  young  Risler  wrote 
Sidonie  a  farewell  letter,  at  once  laughable  and 
touching,  wherein,  mingling  the  most  technic.l 
details  with  the  most  heartrending  adieux,  the 
unhappy  engineer  declared  that  he  was  about  to 
set  sail,  with  a  broken  heart,  on  the  transport 
Sahib,  "  a  sailing  ship  and  steam  ship  combined, 
with  engines  of  fifteen  hundred  horse  power,"  as 
if  he  hoped  that  so  considerable  a  capacity  would 
make  an  impression  on  his  ungrateful  betrothed, 
and  cause  her  never-ending  remorse.  But  Sidonie 
had  very  different  matters  in  her  head. 

She  was  beginning  to  be  disturbed  by  Georgcs's 
silence.     Since   she    left   Savigny  she    had   heard 


8o  Fromont  and  Risler. 

from  him  once,  and  that  was  all.  All  her  letters 
were  left  unanswered.  To  be  sure,  she  knew 
through  Risler  that  Georges  was  very  busy,  and 
that  his  uncle's  death,  devolving  the  management 
of  the  factory  upon  him  as  it  did,  had  imposed 
upon  him  a  responsibility  that  was  beyond  his 
strength.     But  to  leave  her  without  a  word  ! 

From  the  window  on  the  landing,  where  she  had 
resumed  her  silent  observations,  for  she  had  so 
arranged  matters  as  not  to  return  to  Mademoiselle 
Le  Mire,  little  Chebe  tried  to  distinguish  her  lover, 
watched  him  as  he  went  back  and  forth  across  the 
yards  and  among  the  buildings,  and  in  the  after- 
noon, when  it  was  time  for  the  train  to  start  for 
Savigny,  saw  him  enter  his  carriage  to  go  to  his 
aunt  and  cousin,  who  were  passing  the  early  months 
of  their  period  of  mourning  at  the  grandfather's 
chateau  in  the  country. 

All  this  excited  and  alarmed  her ;  and  the  prox- 
imity of  the  factory  rendered  Georges's  avoidance 
of  her  even  more  apparent.  To  think  that  by 
raising  her  voice  a  little  she  could  make  him  turn 
to  where  she  stood  !  To  think  that  they  were  sepa- 
rated only  by  a  wall !  And  yet,  at  that  moment 
they  were  very  far  apart. 

Do  you  remember,  little  Chebe,  that  unhappy 
winter  evening  when  the  excellent  Risler  rushed 
into  your  parents'  room  with  an  extraordinary 
expression  of  countenance,  exclaiming:  "  Great 
news !  " 

Great  news,  indeed. 

Georges  Fromont  had  just  informed  him  that, 


How  Little  CJiebcs  Stojy  Ended      8i 

in  accordance  with  his  uncle's  last  wishes,  he  was 
to  marry  his  cousin  Claire,  and  that,  as  he  was 
certainly  unequal  to  the  task  of  carrying  on  the 
business  alone,  he  had  resolved  to  take  him,  Risler 
for  a  partner,  under  the  firm  name  of  Fromont 
Jeune  and  Risler  AL\e. 

How  did  you  succeed,  little  Chcbe,  in  maintain- 
ing your  self-possession  when  you  learned  that  the 
factory  had  eluded  your  grasp  and  that  another 
woman  had  taken  your  place?  What  a  terrible 
evening  !  —  Madame  Chcbe  sat  by  the  table  mend- 
ing. Monsieur  Chebe  before  the  fire  drying  his 
clothes,  which  were  wet  through  by  his  having 
walked  a  long  distance  in  the  rain.  Oh !  that 
wretched  room,  overflowing  with  gloom  and  ennui ! 
The  lamp  gave  a  dim  light.  The  evening  meal, 
hastily  prepared,  had  left  in  the  room  the  odor 
of  the  poor  man's  kitchen.  And  Risler,  drunken 
with  joy,  talking  with  increasing  animation  and 
laying  plans ! 

All  these  things  tore  your  heart,  mad.e  the 
treachery  still  more  horrible  by  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  riches  that  eluded  your  outstretched 
hand  and  the  ignoble  mediocrity  in  which  you 
were  doomed  to  pass  your  life. 

She  was  seriously  ill  and  for  a  long  while. 

As  she  lay  in  bed,  whenever  the  window  panes 
rattled  behind  the  curtains,  the  unhappy  creature 
fancied  that  Georges's  wedding  carriages  were  driv- 
ing through  the  street;  and  she  had  paroxysms  of 
nervous  excitement,  without  words  and  inexplica- 
ble, as  if  a  fever  of  wrath  were  consuming  her. 
6 


82  Fromont  and  Risler. 

At  last,  time  and  youthful  strength,  her  mother's 
care,  and,  more  than  all,  the  attentions  of  Desiree, 
who  now  knew  of  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  for 
her,  triumphed  over  the  disease.  But  for  a  long 
while  Sidonie  was  very  weak,  oppressed  by  a 
deadly  melancholy,  by  a  constant  longing  to  weep, 
which  played  havoc  with  her  nervous  system. 

Sometimes  she  talked  of  travelling,  of  leaving 
Paris.  At  other  times  she  insisted  that  she  must 
enter  a  convent.  Her  friends  were  sorely  per- 
plexed and  strove  to  discover  the  cause  of  that 
singular  state  of  mind,  which  was  even  more  alarm- 
ing than  her  illness ;  when  she  suddenly  confessed 
to  her  mother  the  secret  of  her  melancholy. 

She  loved  the  elder  Risler.  She  had  never 
dared  to  whisper  it ;  but  it  was  he  whom  she  had 
always  loved  and  not  Frantz. 

That  news  was  a  surprise  to  everybody,  to  Risler 
most  of  all;  but  little  Chebe  was  so  pretty,  her 
eyes  were  so  soft  when  she  glanced  at  him,  that 
the  honest  fellow  instantly  became  as  fond  of  her 
as  a  fool !  Indeed  it  may  be  that  that  love  had 
lain  in  his  heart  for  a  long  time  without  his 
realizing  it. 

And  that  is  how  it  happened  that,  on  the  even- 
ing of  her  wedding-day,  young  Madame  Risler,  in 
her  white  wedding-dress,  gazed  with  a  smile  of 
triumph  at  the  window  on  the  landing  which  had 
been  the  narrow  setting  of  ten  years  of  her  life. 
That  haughty  smile,  in  which  there  was  a  touch 
of  profound  pity  and  of  scorn  as  well,  such  scorn 
as  a  parvenu  can  feel  for  his  poor  beginnings,  was 


How  Little  CJicbcs  Story  Ended      83 

evidently  addressed  to  the  poor  sickly  child  whom 
she  fancied  that  she  saw  up  at  that  window,  in  the 
depths  of  the  past  and  the  darkness,  and  seemed 
to  say  to  her,  pointing  to  the  factory : 

"What  do  you  say  to  this,  little  Chebe?     I  am 
here  now,  you  see  !  " 


84  Fromont  and  Risler. 


BOOK    SECOND. 


MY    WIFE'S    RECEPTION    DAY. 

Noon.     The  Marais  is  breakfasting. 

With  the  booming  notes  of  the  angelus  from 
Saint-Paul,  Saint-Gervais  and  Saint-Denis  du  Saint- 
Sacrament,  is  mingled  the  shrill  jangle  of  the  fac- 
tory bells,  floating  up  from  the  yards.  Each  of 
those  jangling  bells  has  its  own  distinctive  char- 
acter. Some  are  melancholy  and  some  gay,  some 
sprightly  and  some  sluggish.  There  are  rich,  happy 
bells,  ringing  for  hundreds  of  workmen;  there  are 
poor,  shrinking  bells,  which  seem  to  hide  behind 
the  others  and  to  make  as  little  noise  as  possible, 
as  if  they  feared  that  bankruptcy  might  hear  them. 
And  then  there  are  the  lying,  insolent  bells,  those 
that  ring  for  the  outer  world,  for  the  street,  to 
make  people  think  that  they  belong  to  large 
establishments  and  have  many  people  in  their 
charge. 

Thank  God,  the  bell  on  the  Fromont  factory  is 
not  one  of  that  kind.  It  is  an  honest  old  bell,  a 
little  cracked,  well-known  in  the  Marais  for  forty 


My   Wifcs  Recepiio7i  Day.  85 

years  past,  a  bell  that  has  never  failed  to  ring 
except  on  holidays  and  days  of  ^meutcs. 

At  its  voice  a  whole  colony  of  workmen  files 
through  the  gateway  of  the  former  mansion-house 
and  vanishes  in  the  neighboring  wineshops.  The 
apprentices  sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk 
with  the  masons.  To  make  sure  of  half  an  hour 
for  amusement,  they  breakfast  in  five  minutes  on 
such  things  as  vagrants  and  paupers  eat  in  Paris, 
chestnuts,  walnuts,  and  apples,  while  the  masons 
beside  them  attack  great  loaves  of  bread,  white 
with  flour  and  plaster.  The  women  are  in  a  hurry 
and  run  away  from  the  works.  They  all  have,  at 
home  or  at  the  shelter,  a  child  to  care  for  or  an 
aged  parent,  or  housekeeping  duties  to  attend  to. 
Suffocated  by  the  air  of  the  workshops,  swollen- 
eyed,  their  hair  made  dingy  by  the  dust  from  the 
velvet  papers,  a  fine  powder  which  makes  one 
cough,  they  hurry  along,  basket  on  arm,  through 
the  crowded  street,  where  the  omnibuses  make 
their  way  with  difficulty  through  the  throngs  of 
people. 

Sitting  near  the  door,  on  a  stone  which  once 
served  as  a  horse-block  for  equestrians,  Risler 
watches  with  a  smile  the  exit  from  the  factory. 
He  never  loses  his  enjoyment  of  the  outspoken 
esteem  of  all  these  good  people  whom  he  knew 
when  he  was  insignificant  and  humble  like  them- 
selves. The  "  Good-day,  Monsieur  Risler,"  uttered 
by  so  many  different  voices,  all  in  the  same  affec- 
tionate tone,  makes  his  heart  warm.  The  children 
accost  him  without  fear,  the  long-bearded  designers, 


S6  F7^07nont  and  Risler. 

half-workmen,  half-artists,  shake  hands  with  him  as 
they  pass,  and  address  him  familiarly  as  "  thou." 
Perhaps  there  is  a  little  too  much  familiarity  in 
all  this,  for  the  worthy  man  has  not  yet  begun  to 
realize  the  prestige  and  authority  of  his  new  posi- 
tion ;  and  I  know  someone  who  considers  this 
free-and-easy  manner  very  humiliating.  But  that 
someone  cannot  see  him  at  this  moment,  and  the 
master  takes  advantage  of  the  fact  to  bestow  a 
hearty  greeting  upon  the  old  book-keeper,  Sigis- 
mond,  who  comes  out  last  of  all,  erect  and  red- 
faced,  imprisoned  in  a  high  collar,  and  bareheaded 
—  whatever  the  weather  —  for  fear  of  apoplexy. 

He  and  Risler  are  fellow-countrymen.  They 
have  for  each  other  a  deep-seated  esteem,  dating 
from  their  first  employment  at  the  factory,  from 
the  time,  long,  long  ago,  when  they  breakfasted 
together  at  the  little  creamery  on  the  corner,  to 
which  Sigismond  Planus  goes  alone  now  and  selects 
his  refreshment  for  the  day  from  the  slate  hanging 
on  the  wall. 

But  stand  aside !  Fromont  Jeune's  carriage 
drives  through  the  gateway.  He  has  been  out  on 
business  all  the  morning ;  and  the  partners  as  they 
walk  toward  the  pretty  little  house  in  which  they 
both  live  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  discuss  matters 
of  business  in  a  friendly  way. 

"  I  have  been  to  Prochasson's,"  says  Fromont. 
"  They  showed  me  some  new  patterns,  pretty  ones 
too,  on  my  word !  We  must  be  on  our  guard. 
They  are  dangerous  rivals." 

But  Risler  is  not  at  all  anxious.     He  is  strong 


My   Wifcs  Reception  Day.  Sy 

in  his  talent,  his  experience;  and  then  —  but  this 
is  strictly  confidential  —  he  is  on  the  track  of  a 
wonderful  invention,  an  improved  printing-press, 
something  that  —  but  we  shall  see.  Still  talking, 
they  enter  the  garden,  .which  is  as  carefully  kept 
as  a  public  park,  with  round-topped  acacias  almost 
as  old  as  the  buildings,  and  magnificent  ivies  that 
hide  the  high,  black  walls. 

Beside  Fromont  Jeunc,  Rislcr  Aine  has  the 
appearance  of  a  clerk  making  his  report  to  his 
employer.  At  every  step  he  stops  to  speak,  for 
his  gait  is  heavy,  his  mind  works  slowly,  and  words 
have  much  difficulty  in  finding  their  way  to  his 
lips.  Oh  !  if  he  could  see  the  little  flushed  face 
up  yonder,  behind  the  window  on  the  second  floor, 
watching  everything  so  attentively ! 

Madame  Risler  is  waiting  for  her  husband  to 
come  to  breakfast,  and  waxes  impatient  over  the 
goodman's  moderation.  She  motions  to  him  with 
her  hand :  "  Come,  come  !  "  But  Risler  docs  not 
notice  it.  His  attention  is  engrossed  by  the  little 
Fromont,  daughter  of  Claire  and  Georges,  who  is 
taking  a  sun-bath,  blooming  like  a  flower  amid  her 
lace  in  her  nurse's  arms.  How  pretty  she  is !  — 
"  She  is  your  very  picture,  Madame  Chorche." 

"Do  you  think  so,  my  dear  Risler?  Why 
everybody  says  she  looks  like  her  father." 

"  Yes,  a  little.     But  —  " 

And  there  they  all  stand,  the  father  and  mother, 
Risler  and  the  nurse,  gravely  seeking  resemblances 
in  that  miniature  model  of  a  human  being,  who 
stares  at  them  out  of  her  little  eyes,  blinking  with 


88  Fromont  and  Risler. 

the  noise  and  glare.  Sidonie  at  her  open  window 
leans  out  to  see  what  they  are  doing,  and  why  her 
husband  does  not  come  up. 

At  that  moment  Risler  has  taken  the  tiny 
creature  in  his  arms,  the  whole  fascinating  bundle 
of  white  clothes  and  light  ribbons,  and  is  trying  to 
make  it  laugh  and  crow  with  baby-talk  and 
gestures  worthy  of  a  grandfather.  How  old  he 
looks,  poor  man  !  His  tall  body,  which  he  con- 
torts for  the  child's  amusement,  his  hoarse  voice, 
which  becomes  a  low  growl  when  he  tries  to 
soften  it,  are  shameful  and  ridiculous. 

Up  above,  the  wife  taps  the  floor  with  her  foot 
and  mutters  between  her  teeth : 

"The  idiot!  " 

At  last,  weary  of  waiting,  she  sends  a  servant  to 
tell  monsieur  that  breakfast  is  served  ;  but  the  game 
is  so  far  advanced  that  monsieur  does  not  see  how 
he  can  go  away,  how  he  can  interrupt  those 
explosions  of  laughter  and  little  bird-like  cries. 
He  succeeds  at  last,  however,  in  giving  the  child 
back  to  its  nurse,  and  escapes  into  the  hall,  laugh- 
ing with  all  his  heart.  He  is  laughing  still  when  he 
enters  the  dining-room ;  but  a  glance  from  his  wife 
stops  him  short. 

Sidonie  is  seated  at  table  before  the  chafing- 
dish,  already  filled.  Her  martyr-like  attitude  sug- 
gests a  determination  to  be  ugly. 

"  Oh  !  there  you  are.     It 's  very  lucky  !  " 

Risler  took  his  seat,  a  little  ashamed. 

"  What  would  you  have,  m.y  love?  That  child  is 
so  —  " 


My    Wi/cs  Reception  Day.  89 

"  I  have  asked  you  before  not  to  speak  to  me  in 
that  way.     It  is  n't  good  form  between  us." 

"  What,  not  when  we  're  alone?  " 

"  Bah  !  you  will  never  learn  to  adapt  yourself  to 
our  new  fortune.  And  what's  the  result?  No 
one  in  this  place  treats  me  with  any  respect. 
Pere  Achille  hardly  touches  his  hat  to  me  when  I 
pass  his  lodge.  To  be  sure,  I  'm  not  a  Fromont, 
and  I  have  n't  a  carriage." 

"  Come,  come,  little  one,  you  know  perfectly 
well  that  you  can  use  Madame  Chorche's  coupe. 
She  always  puts  it  at  our  disposal." 

"  How  many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  I  don't 
choose  to  be  under  any  obligations  to  that 
woman?  " 

"Oh!  Sidonie  — " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  know,  it 's  all  understood.  Madame 
Fromont  is  the  good  Lord  himself  Everyone  is 
forbidden  to  touch  her.  And  I  must  make  up  my 
mind  to  be  a  nobody  in  my  own  house,  to  allow 
myself  to  be  humiliated,  trampled  under  foot." 

"  Come,  come,  little  one  —  " 

Poor  Risler  tries  to  interpose,  to  say  a  word  in 
favor  of  his  dear  Madame  Chorche.  But  he  has 
no  tact.  That  is  the  worst  possible  method  of 
effecting  a  reconciliation;  and  Sidonie  at  once 
bursts  forth : 

"  I  tell  you  that  that  woman,  with  all  her  calm 
airs,  is  proud  and  spiteful.  In  the  first  place,  she 
detests  me,  I  know  that.  So  long  as  I  was  poor 
little  Sidonie  and  she  could  toss  me  her  broken 
dolls  and  old  dresses,  it  was  all  right;    but  now 


90  Fromont  and  Risler. 

that  I  am  my  own  mistress  as  well  as  she,  it  vexes 
her  and  humiliates  her.  Madame  gives  me  advice 
with  a  lofty  air,  and  criticises  my  ways.  I  did 
wrong  to  have  a  maid.  Of  course  !  Was  n't  I  in 
the  habit  of  waiting  on  myself  ?  She  never  loses  a 
chance  to  wound  me.  When  I  call  on  her  on 
Wednesdays,  you  ought  to  hear  the  tone  in  which 
she  asks  me,  right  before  everybody,  how  '  dear 
Madame  Chebe  '  is.  —  Oh  !  yes.  I  'm  a  Chebe  and 
she  's  a  Fromont.  One  's  as  good  as  the  other,  in 
my  opinion.  My  grandfather  was  a  druggist. 
What  was  hers?  A  peasant  who  got  rich  by 
money-lending.  Oh  !  I  '11  tell  her  so  one  of  these 
days,  if  she  shows  me  too  much  of  her  pride; 
and  I  '11  tell  her  too  that  their  little  brat,  although 
they  don't  suspect  it,  looks  just  like  that  old 
Pere  Gardinois,  and  God  knows  he  is  n't  hand- 
some." 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaims  Risler,  unable  to  find  words  to 
reply  to  her. 

"  Oh  !  yes,  pardi!  I  advise  you  to  admire  their 
child.  She  's  always  sick.  She  cries  all  night  like 
a  little  cat.  It  keeps  me  awake.  And  afterward, 
through  the  day,  I  have  mamma's  piano  and  her 
scales  —  tra  la  la  la.  If  it  was  only  music  worth 
listening  to !  " 

Risler  has  taken  the  wisest  course.  He  does 
not  say  a  word  until  he  sees  that  she  is  beginning 
to  calm  down  a  little,  when  he  completes  the 
soothing  process  with  compliments. 

"  How  pretty  we  are  to-day  !  Are  we  going  out 
soon  to  make  some  calls,  eh  ?  " 


My   Wifes  Reception  Day,  91 

He  resorts  to  this  mode  of  address  to  avoid  the 
more  familiar  form,  which  is  so  offensive  to  her. 

"  No,  I  am  not  going  to  make  calls,"  Sidonie  re- 
plies with  a  certain  pride,  "  On  the  other  hand,  I 
expect  to  receive  them.     This  is  my  day." 

In  response  to  her  husband's  astounded,  bewil- 
dered expression,  she  continues : 

"  Why,  yes,  this  is  my  day.  Madame  Fromont 
has  one ;   I  can  have  one  also,  I  fancy." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  honest  Risler, 
looking  about  with  some  little  uneasiness.  "  So 
that 's  why  I  saw  so  many  flowers  everywhere,  on 
the  landing,  in  the  salon." 

"  Yes,  my  maid  went  down  to  the  garden  this 
morning.  Did  I  do  wrong?  Oh  !  you  don't  say 
so,  but  I  'm  sure  you  think  I  did  wrong.  Dame! 
I  thought  the  flowers  in  the  garden  belonged  to  us 
as  much  as  to  them." 

"  Certainly  they  do  — but  you  —  it  would  have 
been  better  perhaps  —  " 

"To  ask  leave?  That's  it  —  to  humble  myself 
again  for  a  few  paltry  chrysanthemums  and  two  or 
three  bits  of  green.  Besides,  I  did  n't  make  any 
secret  of  taking  the  flowers ;  and  when  she  conies 
up  a  little  later  —  " 

"  Is  she  coming?     Ah  !  that 's  very  nice  of  her." 

Sidonie  turned  upon  him  indignantly. 

"Whai's  that?  Nice  of  her?  Upon  my  word, 
if  she  don't  come,  that  would  be  the  last  straw. 
When  I  go  every  Wednesday  to  be  bored  to  death 
in  her  salon  with  a  crowd  of  affected,  simpering 
women." 


92  Fromo7it  and  Risler. 

She  did  not  say  that  those  same  Wednesdays  of 
Madame  Fromont's  were  of  great  service  to  her, 
that  they  were  hke  a  weekly  journal  of  fashions, 
one  of  those  composite  little  publications  in  which 
you  are  told  how  to  enter  and  leave  a  room,  how  to 
bow,  how  to  place  flowers  in  a  jardiniere,  and  cigars 
in  a  case,  to  say  nothing  of  the  engravings,  the 
procession  of  graceful,  faultlessly  attired  men  and 
women,  and  the  names  of  the  best  dressmakers. 
Nor  did  Sidonie  say  that  she  had  entreated  all 
those  friends  of  Claire's,  of  whom  she  spoke  so 
scornfully,  to  come  and  see  her  on  her  day,  and 
that  the  day  was  selected  by  them. 

Will  they  come?  Will  Madame  Fromont  Jeune 
insult  Madame  Risler  Aine,  by  absenting  herself 
on  her  first  Friday?  The  thought  makes  her 
almost  feverish  with  anxiety. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  hurry,"  she  says  again  and 
again.  "  Good  God !  how  long  you  are  at  your 
breakfast !  " 

It  is  a  fact  that  it  is  one  of  honest  Risler's  whims 
to  eat  slowly  and  to  light  his  pipe  at  the  table  while 
he  sips  his  coffee.  To-day  he  must  renounce  these 
cherished  habits,  must  leave  the  pipe  in  its  case 
because  of  the  smoke,  and,  as  soon  as  he  has 
swallowed  the  last  mouthful,  run  hastily  and 
dress,  for  his  wife  insists  that  he  must  come  up 
during  the  afternoon  and  pay  his  respects  to  the 
ladies. 

What  a  sensation  in  the  factory  when  they  see 
Risler  Ain6  come  in,  on  a  week-day,  in  a  black 
frock-coat  and  dress  cravat ! 


My   IVifes  Reception  Day.  93 

"Are  you  going  to  a  wedding,  pray?"  cries 
Sigismond,  the  cashier,  from  behind  his  grating. 

And  Risler,  not  without  a  fceHng  of  pride, 
repHes : 

"  It  is  my  wife's  reception  day !  " 

Soon  everybody  in  the  place  knows  that  it  is 
Sidonic's  day;  and  Pcre  Achille,  who  takes  care  of 
the  garden,  is  not  very  well  pleased  to  find  that  the 
branches  of  the  winter  laurels  by  the  gate  are 
broken. 

Before  taking  his  seat  at  the  table  upon  which 
he  draws,  in  the  bright  light  from  the  high  windows, 
Risler  has  taken  off  his  fine  frock  coat,  which  em- 
barrasses him,  and  has  turned  up  his  clean  shirt 
sleeves;  but  the  idea  that  his  wife  is  expecting 
company  preoccupies  and  disturbs  him;  and  from 
time  to  time  he  puts  on  his  coat  and  goes  up  to 
her. 

"  Has  no  one  come?  "  he  asks  timidly. 

"No,  monsieur,  no  one." 

In  the  beautiful  red  salon  —  for  they  have  a  salon 
in  red  damask,  with  a  console  between  the  windows 
and  a  pretty  table  in  the  centre  of  the  light-flow- 
ered carpet  —  Sidonie  has  established  herself  in  the 
attitude  of  a  woman  holding  a  reception,  a  circle 
of  chairs  of  all  sorts  around  her.  Here  and  there 
are  books,  reviews,  a  little  work-basket  in  the  shape 
of  a  game-bag,  with  silk  tassels,  a  bunch  of  violets 
in  a  glass  vase,  and  green  plants  in  the  jardinieres. 
Everything  is  arranged  exactly  as  in  the  Fromonts' 
apartments  on  the  floor  below;  but  the  taste,  that 
invisible    line    which  separates    the    distinguished 


94  Fromont  and  Risler. 

from  the  vulgar,  is  not  yet  refined.  You  would  say 
it  was  a  passable  copy  of  a  pretty  genre  picture. 
The  hostess's  dress,  even,  is  too  new;  she  looks 
more  as  if  she  were  making  a  call  than  as  if  she 
were  at  home.  In  Risler's  eyes  everything  is 
superb,  beyond  reproach ;  he  is  preparing  to  say  as 
much  as  he  enters  the  salon,  but,  in  face  of  his 
wife's  wrathful  glance,  he  checks  himself  in  terror. 

"  You  see,  it 's  four  o'clock,"  she  says,  pointing 
to  the  clock  with  an  angry  gesture.  "  No  one 
will  come.  But  I  take  it  especially  ill  of  Claire 
not  to  come  up.  She  's  at  home  —  I  am  sure  of  it 
—  I  can  hear  her." 

Indeed,  ever  since  noon,  Sidonie  has  listened 
intently  to  the  slightest  sounds  on  the  floor  below, 
the  child's  crying,  the  closing  of  doors.  Risler 
attempts  to  go  down  again  in  order  to  avoid  a  re- 
newal of  the  conversation  at  breakfast;  but  his 
wife  will  not  have  it  so.  The  very  least  he  can  do 
is  to  stay  with  her  when  everybody  else  abandons 
her,  and  so  he  remains  there,  at  a  loss  what  to  say, 
rooted  to  the  spot,  like  those  people  who  dare  not 
move  during  a  storm  for  fear  of  attracting  the  light- 
ning. Sidonie  moves  excitedly  about,  going  in 
and  out  of  the  salon,  changing  the  position  of  a 
chair,  changing  it  back  again,  looking  at  herself 
as  she  passes  the  mirror,  and  ringing  for  her  maid 
to  send  her  to  ask  Pere  Achille  if  no  one  has  in- 
quired for  her.  That  Pere  Achille  is  such  a  spite- 
ful creature  !  Perhaps  when  people  have  come,  he 
has  said  that  she  was  out. 

But  no,  the  concierge  has  not  seen  anyone. 


My   Wifes  Recepiioii  Day.  95 

Silence  and  consternation.  Sidonic  is  standing 
at  the  window  on  the  left,  Risler  at  the  one  on  the 
right.  From  there  they  can  see  the  little  garden, 
where  the  darkness  is  gathering,  and  the  black 
smoke  which  the  chimney  emits  beneath  the  low-- 
hanging  clouds.  Sigismond's  window  is  the  first 
to  show  a  light  on  the  ground  floor ;  the  cashier 
trims  his  lamp  himself  with  painstaking  care,  and 
his  tall  shadow  passes  in  front  of  the  flame  and 
bends  double  behind  the  grating.  Sidonie's  wrath 
is  diverted  a  moment  by  these  familiar  details. 

Suddenly  a  small  coupe  drives  into  the  garden 
and  stops  in  front  of  the  door.  At  last  some  one 
is  coming.  In  that  pretty  whirl  of  silk  and  flowers 
and  jet  and  flounces  and  furs,  as  it  runs  quickly 
up  the  step,  Sidonie  has  recognized  one  of  the 
most  fashionable  frequenters  of  the  Fromont  salon, 
the  wife  of  a  wealthy  dealer  in  bronzes.  What  an 
honor  to  receive  a  call  from  such  an  one !  Quick, 
quick !  the  family  takes  its  position.  Monsieur  in 
front  of  the  hearth,  Madame  in  an  easy-chair,  care- 
lessly turning  the  leaves  of  a  magazine.  Wasted 
pose  !  The  fair  caller  did  not  come  to  see  Sidonie ; 
she  has  stopped  at  the  floor  below. 

Ah !  if  Madame  Georges  could  hear  what  her 
neighbor  says  of  her  and  her  friends  ! 

At  that  moment  the  door  opens  and  "  Made- 
moiselle Planus  "  is  announced. 

She  is  the  cashier's  sister,  a  poor  old  maid, 
humble  and  modest,  who  has  made  it  her  duty  to 
make  this  call  upon  the  wife  of  her  brother's 
employer,  and  who  seems  stupefied  by  the  warm 


96  Fromont  and  Risler. 

welcome  she  receives.  She  is  surrounded  and 
made  much  of.  "  How  kind  of  you  to  come ! 
Draw  up  to  the  fire."  They  overwhelm  her  with 
attentions  and  show  great  interest  in  her  slightest 
word.  Honest  Risler's  smiles  are  as  warm  as  his 
thanks.  Sidonie  herself  displays  all  her  fascina- 
tions, overjoyed  to  exhibit  herself  in  her  glory  to 
one  who  was  her  equal  in  the  old  days,  and  to 
reflect  that  the  other,  in  the  room  below,  must 
hear  that  she  has  had  callers.  So  she  makes  as 
much  noise  as  possible,  moving  chairs,  pushing  the 
table  around ;  and  when  the  old  maid  takes  her 
leave,  dazzled,  enchanted,  bewildered,  she  escorts 
her  to  the  landing  with  a  great  rustling  of  flounces, 
and  calls  to  her  in  a  very  loud  voice,  leaning  over 
the  rail,  that  she  is  at  home  every  Friday.  "  You 
understand,  every  Friday." 

Now  it  is  dark.  The  two  great  lamps  in  the 
salon  are  lighted.  In  the  adjoining  room  they 
hear  the  servant  laying  the  table.  It  is  all  over. 
Madame  Fromont  Jeune  will  not  come. 

Sidonie  is  livid  with  rage. 

"  Just  fancy,  that  minx  can't  come  up  eighteen 
stairs !  No  doubt  Madame  thinks  we  're  not  big 
enough  for  her.     Ah  !  but  I  '11  have  my  revenge." 

As  she  pours  forth  her  wrath  in  unjust  words, 
her  voice  becomes  coarse,  takes  on  the  intonations 
of  the  faubourg,  an  accent  of  the  common  people 
which  betrays  the  ex-apprentice  of  Mademoiselle 
Le  Mire. 

Risler  is  unlucky  enough  to  make  a  remark : 

"Who  knows?     Perhaps  the  child  is  sick." 


My   Wifes  Reception  Day.  97 

She  turns  upon  him  in  a  fury,  as  if  she  would 
Hke  to  bite  him. 

"Will  you  hold  your  tongue  about  that  child? 
After  all,  it 's  your  fault  that  this  has  happened  to 
me.  You  don't  know  how  to  make  people  treat 
me  with  respect." 

And  as  she  violently  closed  the  door  of  her  bed- 
room, making  the  globes  on  the  lamps  tremble 
as  well  as  all  the  knick-knacks  on  the  ^tageres, 
Risler,  left  alone,  stands  motionless  in  the  centre 
of  the  salon,  looking  with  an  air  of  consternation 
at  his  white  wrist-bands,  his  broad  patent-leathers, 
and  mutters  mechanically: 

"  My  wife's  day  !  " 


98  Fromont  and  Risler, 


11. 

THE  TRUE  PEARL  AND  THE  FALSE  PEARL. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?  What  have  I  done  to 
her?"  Claire  Fromont  often  wondered  when  she 
thought  of  Sidonie, 

She  was  entirely  ignorant  of  what  had  formerly- 
taken  place  between  her  friend  and  Georges,  at 
Savigny.  Her  life  was  so  upright,  her  mind  so 
pure,  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  ,divine  the 
jealous,  mean-spirited  ambition  that  had  grown  up 
by  her  side  within  the  past  fifteen  years.  And  yet 
the  enigmatical  expression  in  that  pretty  face  as  it 
smiled  upon  her  gave  her  a  vague  feeling  of  un- 
easiness which  she  could  not  understand.  An 
affectation  of  politeness,  strange  enough  between 
friends,  was  suddenly  succeeded  by  an  ill-dissem- 
bled wrath,  a  cold,  stinging  tone,  in  presence  of 
which  Claire  was  as  perplexed  as  by  a  knotty 
problem.  Sometimes,  too,  a  singular  presenti- 
ment, the  ill-defined  intuition  of  a  great  calamity, 
was  mingled  with  her  uneasiness ;  for  all  women 
have  more  or  less  second  sight,  and,  even  in  the 
most  innocent,  utter  ignorance  of  evil  is  suddenly 
illumined  by  visions  of  extraordinary  lucidity. 


TJte   True  Pearl  and  iJie  False  Pearl.    99 

From  time  to  time,  as  the  result  of  a  conversa- 
tion somewhat  more  prolonged  than  usual,  or  of 
one  of  those  unexpected  meetings  when  faces 
taken  by  surprise  allow  their  real  thoughts  to  be 
seen,  Madame  Fromont  reflected  seriously  con- 
cerning this  strange  little  Sidonie ;  but  the  active, 
urgent  duties  of  life,  with  its  accompaniment  of 
affections  and  preoccupations,  left  her  no  time  for 
dwelling  upon  such  trifles. 

There  is,  with  all  women,  a  time  of  life  when 
they  encounter  such  sudden  \yindings  in  the  road 
that  their  whole  horizon  changes  and  all  their 
points  of  view  become  transformed. 

As  a  young  girl,  the  falling  away  of  that  friend- 
ship bit  by  bit,  as  if  torn  from  her  by  an  unkindly 
hand,  would  have  been  a  source  of  great  regret  to 
her.  But  she  had  lost  her  father,  the  object  of  her 
greatest,  her  only  youthful  affection ;  then  she 
had  married.  The  child  had  come  with  its  thrice 
welcome  demands  upon  her  every  moment.  More- 
over, she  had  with  her  her  mother,  almost  in  her 
dotage,  still  stupefied  by  her  husband's  tragic 
death.  In  a  life  so  fully  occupied,  Sidonie's  ca- 
prices received  but  little  attention ;  and  it  had 
hardly  occurred  to  Claire  Fromont  to  be  surprised 
at  her  marriage  to  Rislcr.  He  was  clearly  too  old 
for  her ;  but,  after  all,  what  difference  did  it  make, 
if  they  loved  each  other? 

As  for  being  vexed  because  little  Chcbe  had  at- 
tained that  lofty  position,  had  become  almost  her 
equal,  her  very  superior  nature  was  incapable  of 
such  pettiness.     On  the  contrary,  she  would  have 


lOO  Fromont  and  Risler. 

been  glad  with  all  her  heart  to  know  that  that 
young  wife,  whose  home  was  so  near  her  own, 
who  lived  the  same  life,  so  to  speak,  and  had 
been  her  playmate  in  childhood,  was  happy  and 
highly-esteemed.  Being  most  kindly  disposed 
toward  her,  she  tried  to  teach  her,  to  instruct  her 
in  the  ways  of  society,  as  one  might  instruct  an 
attractive  provincial,  who  fell  but  little  short  of 
being  charming. 

Advice  is  not  readily  accepted  by  one  pretty 
young  woman  from  another.  When  Madame  Fro- 
mont, on  the  occasion  of  a  grand  dinner-party, 
took  Madame  Risler  to  her  bedroom,  and  said  to 
her,  smiling  frankly  in  order  not  to  anger  her : 
"  Too  many  jewels,  my  dear.  And  then,  you 
know,  with  a  high  dress  one  does  n't  wear  flowers 
in  one's  hair,"  —  Sidonie  blushed,  and  thanked  her 
friend,  but  wrote  down  an  additional  grievance 
against  her  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

In  Claire's  circle  her  welcome  was  decidedly 
cold. 

Faubourg  Saint-Germain  has  its  pretensions ; 
but  do   not  imagine  that  the  Marais  has  none  ! 

Those  wives  and  daughters  of  mechanics,  of 
wealthy  manufacturers,  knew  little  Chebe's  story ; 
indeed  they  would  have  guessed  it  simply  by  her 
manner  of  making  her  appearance  and  by  her 
demeanor  among  them. 

Sidonie's  efforts  were  unavailing.  She  retained 
the  manners  of  a  shop-girl.  Her  slightly  artificial 
amiability,  sometimes  too  humble,  was  as  unpleas- 
ant as  the  spurious  elegance  of  the  shop;  and  her 


The   Trtie  Pearl  and  the  False  Pearl.     loi 

disdainful  attitudes  recalled  the  superb  airs  of  the 
head  salcszvouieit  in  the  great  dry  goods  establish- 
ments, arrayed  in  black  silk  dresses,  which  they 
take  off  in  the  dressing-room  when  they  go  away 
at  night,  —  who  stare  with  an  imposing  air,  from 
the  vantage-point  of  their  mountains  of  curls,  at 
the  poor  creatures  who  venture  to  haggle  over 
prices. 

She  felt  that  she  was  being  examined  and  criti- 
cised, and  her  modesty  was  compelled  to  place 
itself  upon  a  war  footing.  Of  the  names  mentioned 
in  her  presence,  the  anmsements,  the  parties,  the 
books  of  which  they  talked  to  her,  she  knew 
nothing.  Claire  did  her  best  to  help  her,  to  keep 
her  on  the  surface,  with  a  friendly  hand  always 
outstretched  ;  but  many  of  these  ladies  considered 
Sidonie  pretty ;  that  was  enough  to  make  them 
bear  her  a  grudge  for  seeking  admission  to  their 
circle.  Others,  proud  of  their  husbands'  positions, 
of  their  wealth,  could  not  invent  enough  unspoken 
affronts  and  patronizing  phrases  to  humiliate  the 
little  parvenu. 

Sidonie  included  them  all  in  a  single  phrase : 
"  Claire's  friends,  that  is  to  say,  my  enemies !  " 
But  she  was  seriously  incensed  against  but  one. 

The  two  partners  had  no  suspicion  of  what  was 
taking  place  between  their  wives. 

Risler,  constantly  engrossed  in  his  press,  some- 
times remained  at  his  draughting-table  until  mid- 
night. Fromont  passed  his  days  abroad,  lunched 
at  his  club,  was  almost  never  at  the  factory.  He 
had  his  reasons  for  that. 


I02  Fromont  mtd  Risler. 

Sidonie's  proximity  disturbed  him.  His  capri- 
cious passion  for  her,  that  passion  that  he  had 
sacrificed  to  his  uncle's  last  wishes,  recurred  too 
often  to  his  memory  with  all  the  regret  one  feels 
for  the  irreparable ;  and,  conscious  that  he  was 
weak,  he  fled.  His  was  a  pliable  nature,  without 
sustaining  purpose,  intelligent  enough  to  appreci- 
ate its  failings,  too  weak  to  guide  itself  On  the 
evening  of  Risler's  wedding  —  he  had  been  mar- 
ried but  a  few  months  himself —  he  had  experi- 
enced anew,  in  that  woman's  presence,  all  the 
emotion  of  the  stormy  evenings  at  Savigny. 
Thereafter,  without  self-examination,  he  avoided 
seeing  her  again  or  speaking  with  her.  Unfor- 
tunately, as  they  lived  in  the  same  house,  as 
their  wives  saw  each  other  ten  times  a  day, 
chance  sometimes  brought  them  together;  and 
this  strange  thing  happened,  —  that  that  husband, 
wishing  to  remain  virtuous,  deserted  his  home 
altogether  and  sought  distraction  elsewhere. 

Claire  was  not  astonished  that  it  was  so.  She 
had  become  accustomed  during  her  father's  life- 
time to  the  constant  "  up  and  away"  of  a  business 
life ;  and  during  her  husband's  absences,  zealously 
performing  her  duties  as  wife  and  mother,  she  in- 
vented long  tasks,  occupations  of  all  sorts,  walks 
for  the  child,  prolonged,  peaceful  tarryings  in  the 
sunlight,  from  which  she  would  return  home,  over- 
joyed with  the  little  one's  progress,  deeply  im- 
pressed with  the  gleeful  enjoyment  of  all  infants 
in  the  fresh  air,  and  with  a  touch  of  their  radiance 
in  the  depths  of  her  serious  eyes. 


The   True  Pearl  and  the  False  Pearl.     103 

Sidonie  also  >vent  out  a  great  deal.  It  often 
happened,  toward  night,  that  Georges's  car- 
riage, driving  through  the  gateway,  would  com- 
pel Madame  Rislcr  to  step  hastily  aside  as  she 
was  returning  in  a  gorgeous  costume  from  a 
triumphal  promenade.  The  boulevard,  the  shop- 
windows,  the  purchases,  made  after  long  delib- 
eration as  if  to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  pleasure  of 
purchasing,  detained  her  very  late.  They  would 
exchange  a  bow,  a  cold  glance  at  the  foot  of 
the  staircase ;  and  Georges  would  hurry  into  his 
apartments,  as  into  a  place  of  refuge,  concealing 
beneath  a  flood  of  caresses,  bestowed  upon  the 
child  his  wife  held  out  to  him,  the  sudden  emo- 
tion that  had  seized  him. 

Sidonie,  for  her  part,  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
everything,  and  to  have  retained  no  other  feeling 
than  contempt  for  that  weak,  cowardly  creature. 
Moreover,  she  had  many  other  things  to  think 
about. 

Her  husband  had  just  had  a  piano  placed  in  her 
red  salon,  between  the  windows. 

After  long  hesitation  she  had  decided  to  learn 
to  sing,  thinking  that  it  was  rather  late  to  begin 
to  play  the  piano ;  and  twice  a  week,  Madame 
Dobson,  a  pretty,  sentimental  blonde,  came  to 
give  her  lessons  from  twelve  o'clock  to  one.  In 
the  silence  of  the  neighborhood  the  a  —  a  —  a 
and  0  —  0  —  0,  persistently  prolonged,  repeated 
again  and  again,  with  the  windows  open,  gave  the 
factory  the  atmosphere  of  a  boarding-school. 

And  it  was  in  very  truth  a  school-girl  who  was 


I04  Fj''07nont  and  Risler, 

practising  those  exercises,  an  inexperienced,  wav- 
ering little  soul,  full  of  unconfessed  longings,  with 
everything  to  learn  and  to  find  out  in  order  to 
become  a  real  woman.  But  her  ambition  con- 
fined itself  to  a  superficial  aspect  of  things. 

"  Claire  Fromont  plays  the  piano,  I  will  sing. 
She  is  considered  a  refined  and  distinguished 
woman,  and  I  propose  that  people  shall  say  the 
same  of  me." 

Without  a  thought  of  perfecting  her  education, 
she  passed  her  life  running  about  among  the  mil- 
liners and  dressmakers.  **  What  are  people  going 
to  wear  this  winter?"  She  was  attracted  by  the 
gorgeous  displays  in  the  shop  windows,  by  every- 
thing that  caught  the  eye  of  the  passers-by. 

There  still  remained,  at  the  ends  of  her  fingers, 
a  trace  of  the  false  pearls  she  had  handled  so  long, 
a  touch  of  their  artificial  polish,  their  hollow  fra- 
gility, their  superficial  brilliancy.  Indeed  she  was 
herself  a  false  pearl,  well-rounded,  brilliant,  hand- 
somely set,  by  which  the  common  herd  might  be 
deceived ;  but  Claire  Fromont  was  a  genuine  pearl, 
whose  lustre  was  at  once  rich  and  refined,  and 
when  they  were  together  the  difference  was  per- 
ceptible. One  realized  that  Claire  had  always 
been  a  pearl,  a  tiny  pearl  in  her  childhood,  en- 
hanced as  she  grew  to  womanhood  by  those  ele- 
ments of  refinement  and  distinction  which  had 
made  of  her  a  rare  and  priceless  creature.  The 
other,  on  the  contrary,  was  clearly  the  handiwork 
of  Paris,  that  maker  of  false  jewels  who  dispenses 
thousands  of  trifles,  brilliant  and  charming  to  the 


The   Tncc  Pearl  and  tJic  False  Pearl.     105 

eye,  but  unsubstantial,  ill  assorted  and  badly 
made :  a  t}'pical  product  of  the  petty  trades 
among  which  she  had  grown  up. 

The  one  thing  that  Sidonie  envied  Claire  more 
than  all  else  was  the  child,  the  luxurious  plaything, 
beribboned  from  the  curtains  of  its  cradle  to  its 
nurse's  cap.  She  did  not  think  of  the  sweet 
maternal  duties,  demanding  patience  and  self- 
abnegation,  of  the  long  rockings  when  sleep  would 
not  come,  of  the  laughing  awakenings  sparkling 
with  fresh  water.  No  !  she  saw  in  the  child  naught 
but  the  daily  walk.  It  was  such  a  pretty  sight, 
the  little  bundle  of  finery,  with  floating  ribbons 
and  long  feathers,  that  follows  young  mothers 
through  the  crowded  streets. 

When  she  wanted  company  she  had  only  her 
parents  or  her  husband.  She  preferred  to  go  out 
alone.  The  excellent  Risler  had  such  an  absurd 
way  of  showing  his  love  for  her,  playing  with  her 
as  if  she  were  a  doll,  pinching  her  chin  and  her 
cheek,  capering  about  her,  crying:  "  Hou  !  hou  !  " 
or  staring  at  her  with  his  great  soft  eyes  like  an 
affectionate  and  grateful  dog.  That  senseless  love, 
which  made  of  her  a  toy,  a  mantel  ornament,  made 
her  ashamed.  As  for  her  parents,  they  were  an 
embarrassment  to  her  in  presence  of  the  people 
she  wished  to  know,  and  immediately  after  her 
marriage  she  almost  disburdened  herself  of  them 
by  hiring  a  little  house  for  them  at  Montrouge. 
That  step  had  cut  short  the  frequent  invasions  of 
Monsieur  Chebe  and  his  long  frock  coat,  and  the 
endless  visits  of  good  Madame  Chebe,  in  whom  the 


io6  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

return    of  comfortable  circumstances  had  revived 
former  habits  of  gossip  and  of  indolence. 

Sidonie  would  have  been  very  glad  to  rid  herself 
of  the  Delobelles  in  the  same  way,  for  their  proxi- 
mity annoyed  her.  But  the  Marais  was  a  central 
location  for  the  old  actor,  because  the  boulevard 
theatres  were  so  near;  then  too,  D6siree,  like  all 
sedentary  persons,  clung  to  the  familiar  outlook, 
and  her  gloomy  courtyard,  dark  at  four  o'clock  in 
winter,  seemed  to  her  like  a  friend,  like  a  familiar 
face  which  the  sun  lighted  up  at  times  as  if  it  were 
smiling  at  her.  As  she  was  unable  to  get  rid  of 
them,  Sidonie  had  adopted  the  course  of  ceasing 
to  visit  them. 

In  truth  her  life  would  have  been  lonely  and 
depressing  enough,  had  it  not  been  for  the  distrac- 
tions which  Claire  Fromont  procured  for  her. 
Each  time  added  fuel  to  her  wrath.  She  would 
say  to  herself: 

"  Must  everything  come  to  me  through  her?  " 

And  when,  just  at  dinner-time,  a  box  at  the 
theatre  or  an  invitation  for  the  evening  was  sent  to 
her  from  the  floor  below,  while  she  was  dressing, 
overjoyed  at  the  opportunity  to  exhibit  herself, 
she  thought  of  nothing  but  crushing  her  rival. 
But  such  opportunities  became  more  rare  as 
Claire's  time  was  more  and  more  engrossed  by 
her  child.  When  grandfather  Gardinois  came  to 
Paris,  however,  he  never  failed  to  bring  the  two 
families  together.  The  old  peasant's  gayety,  for 
its  freer  expansion,  needed  little  Sidonie,  who  did 
not  take  fright  at  his  jests.     He  would  take  them 


The  True  Pearl  and  the  False  Pearl.     107 

all  four  to  dine  at  Philippe's,  his  favorite  restau- 
rant, where  he  knew  all  the  habitues,  the  waiters 
and  the  steward,  would  spend  a  lot  of  money,  and 
then  take  them  to  a  box,  secured  beforehand,  at 
the  Opera-Comique  or  the  Palais-Royal. 

At  the  theatre  he  laughed  uproariously,  talked 
familiarly  with  the  box-openers,  as  he  did  with 
the  waiters  at  Philippe's,  loudly  demanded  foot- 
stools for  the  ladies,  and  when  the  performance 
was  done  insisted  on  having  the  top-coats  and 
fur  wraps  of  his  party  first  of  all,  as  if  he  were 
the  only  three-million  parvenu  in  the  audience. 

For  these  more  or  less  vulgar  entertainments, 
from  which  her  husband  usually  excused  himself, 
Claire  with  her  usual  tact  dressed  very  quietly  and 
attracted  no  notice.  Sidonie,  on  the  contrary, 
with  all  sail  set,  in  full  view  of  the  boxes,  laughed 
with  all  her  heart  at  the  grandfather's  anecdotes, 
happy  to  have  descended  from  the  second  or 
third  gallery,  her  usual  location  in  the  old  days, 
to  that  lovely  proscenium  box,  adorned  with 
mirrors,  with  a  velvet  rail  that  seemed  made  ex- 
pressly for  her  light  gloves,  her  ivory  opera-glass 
and  her  spangled  fan.  The  tawdry  splendor  of 
the  theatre,  the  red  and  gold  of  the  hangings,  were 
genuine  splendor  to  her.  She  bloomed  among 
them  like  a  pretty  paper  flower  in  a  filigree 
jardiniere. 

One  evening,  at  the  j)erformance  of  a  successful 
play  at  the  Palais-Royal,  among  all  the  noted 
women  who  were  present,  painted  celebrities  wear- 
ing   microscopic    hats    and    armed    with    immense 


io8  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

fans,  their  rouge-besmeared  faces  standing  out 
from  the  shadow  of  the  boxes  in  the  gaudy  setting 
of  their  gowns,  Sidonie's  behavior,  her  toilet,  the 
pecuHarities  of  her  laugh  and  her  expression  at- 
tracted much  notice.  All  the  opera-glasses  in  the 
hall,  guided  by  the  magnetic  current  that  is  so 
powerful  under  the  great  chandeliers,  were  turned 
one  by  one  upon  the  box  in  which  she  sat. 
Claire  soon  became  embarrassed,  and  modestly 
insisted  upon  changing  places  with  her  husband, 
who,  unluckily,  had  accompanied  them  that 
evening 

Georges,  youthful  and  elegant,  sitting  beside 
Sidonie,  seemed  her  natural  companion,  while 
Risler  Ain6,  always  so  placid  and  self-effacing, 
seemed  in  his  proper  place  beside  Claire  Fromont, 
who  in  her  dark  clothes  suggested  the  respectable 
woman  incog,  at  the  Bal  de  I'Opera. 

Upon  leaving  the  theatre  each  of  the  partners 
offered  his  arm  to  his  neighbor.  A  box-opener, 
speaking  to  Sidonie,  referred  to  Georges  as  "your 
husband,"  and  the  little  woman  beamed  with 
pleasure. 

"  Your  husband  !  " 

That  simple  phrase  was  enough  to  upset  her  and 
set  in  motion  a  multitude  of  evil  currents  in  the 
depths  of  her  heart.  As  they  passed  through  the 
corridors  and  the  foyer,  she  watched  Risler  and 
Madame  "  Chorche  "  walking  in  front  of  them. 
Claire's  refinement  of  manner  seemed  to  her  to  be 
vulgarized,  annihilated  by  Risler's  shufifling  gait. 
"  How  ugly  he  must  make  me  look  when  we  are 


The   True  Pearl  ami  the  False  Pearl.     109 

walking  together!  "  she  said  to  herself.  And  her 
heart  beat  fast  as  she  thought  what  a  charming, 
happy,  admired  couple  they  would  have  made,  she 
and  this  Georges  Fromont,  whose  arm  was  trem- 
bling beneath  her  own. 

Thereupon,  when  the  blue-lined  coupe  drove  up 
to  the  door  of  the  theatre,  she  began  to  reflect,  for 
the  first  time,  that,  when  all  was  said,  that  woman 
had  stolen  her  place  and  that  she  would  be  justi- 
fied in  trying  to  recover  it. 


no  Froinont  and  Risler, 


III. 

THE   BREWERY   ON    RUE   BLONDEL. 

After  his  marriage  Risler  had  given  up  the  brew- 
ery. Sidonie  would  have  been  glad  to  have  him 
leave  the  house  in  the  evening  for  a  fashionable 
club,  a  resort  of  wealthy,  well-dressed  men  ;  but  the 
idea  of  his  returning,  amid  clouds  of  pipe-smoke, 
to  his  friends  of  earlier  days,  Sigismond,  Delobelle 
and  her  own  father,  humiliated  her  and  made  her 
unhappy.  So  he  ceased  to  frequent  the  place ; 
and  that  was  something  of  a  sacrifice.  It  was 
almost  a  glimpse  of  his  native  country,  that  brew- 
ery situated  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner  of  Paris. 
The  infrequent  carriages,  the  high,  barred  windows 
of  the  ground  floors,  the  odor  of  fresh  drugs,  of 
pharmaceutical  preparations,  imparted  to  that  nar- 
row little  Rue  Blondel  a  vague  resemblance  to 
certain  streets  in  Bale  or  Zurich.  The  brewery 
was  managed  by  a  Swiss  and  crowded  with  men  of 
that  nationality.  When  the  door  was  opened, 
through  the  smoke-laden  atmosphere,  dense  with 
the  accents  of  the  North,  one  had  a  vision  of  a  vast 
low  room  with  hams  hanging  from  the  rafters,  casks 
of  beer  standing  in  a  row,  the  floor  ankle-deep  with 
saw-dust,  and  on  the  counter  great  salad-bowls 
filled  with  potatoes  as  red  as  chestnuts  and  baskets 


The  Brewery  on  Rue  B  Ion  del.       1 1 1 

of  pretzels  fresh  from  the  oven,  their  golden  knots 
sprinkled  with  white  salt. 

For  twenty  years  Risler  had  had  his  pipe  there, 
a  long  pipe  marked  with  his  name  in  the  rack 
reserved  for  the  regular  customers,  and  his  table, 
at  which  he  was  always  joined  by  several  discreet, 
taciturn  compatriots,  who  listened  admiringly,  but 
without  comprehending  them,  to  the  interminable 
harangues  of  Chebe  and  Delobelle.  When  Risler 
ceased  his  visits  to  the  brewery,  the  tvvo  last-named 
worthies  likewise  turned  their  backs  upon  it,  for 
several  excellent  reasons.  In  the  first  place. 
Monsieur  Chebe  now  lived  a  considerable  distance 
away.  Thanks  to  the  generosity  of  his  children, 
the  dream  of  his  whole  life  was  realized  at  last. 

"  When  I  am  rich,"  the  little  man  used  to  say  in 
his  cheerless  rooms  in  the  Marais,  "  I  will  have  a 
house  of  my  own,  at  the  gates  of  Paris,  almost  in 
the  country,  a  little  garden  which  I  will  plant  and 
water  myself  That  will  be  better  for  my  health 
than  all  the  excitement  of  the  capital." 

Well,  he  had  his  house  now,  and  he  did  not 
enjoy  himself  in  it,  I  give  you  my  word. 

It  was  at  Montrouge,  on  the  road  around  the 
city.  "  A  small  chalet  with  garden,"  said  the 
advertisement,  printed  on  a  placard  which  gave  an 
almost  exact  idea  of  the  dimensions  of  the  prop- 
erty. The  papers  were  new  and  of  rustic  design, 
the  paint  perfectly  fresh  ;  a  water-butt  planted  be- 
side a  vine-clad  arbor  played  the  part  of  a  pond. 
In  addition  to  all  these  advantages,  only  a  hedge 
separated  this  paradise  from  another  "  chalet  with 


1 1 2  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

garden"  of  precisely  the  same  description,  occupied 
by  Sigismond  Planus  the  cashier  and  his  sister. 
To  Madame  Chebe  that  was  a  most  precious  cir- 
cumstance. When  the  good  woman  was  bored, 
she  would  take  a  stock  of  knitting  and  darning 
and  go  and  sit  in  the  old  maid's  arbor,  dazzling 
her  with  the  tale  of  her  past  splendors.  Un- 
luckily, her  husband  had  not  the  same  source  of 
distraction. 

However,  everything  went  well  at  first.  It  was 
midsummer,  and  Monsieur  Chebe,  always  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  was  busily  employed  in  getting  set- 
tled. Each  nail  to  be  driven  in  the  house  was  the 
subject  of  leisurely  reflections,  of  endless  discus- 
sions. It  was  the  same  with  the  garden.  He  had 
determined  at  first  to  make  an  English  garden  of 
it,  lawns  always  green,  winding  paths  shaded  by 
shrubbery.  But  the  devil  of  it  was  that  it  took  so 
long  for  the  shrubbery  to  grow. 

"  Faith  !  I  have  a  good  mind  to  make  an  orchard 
of  it,"  said  the  impatient  little  man. 

And  thenceforth  he  dreamed  of  nothing  but 
vegetables,  long  lines  of  beans,  and  peach-trees 
against  the  wall.  He  dug  for  whole  mornings,  knit- 
ting his  brow  in  a  preoccupied  way  and  wiping  his 
forehead  ostentatiously  before  his  wife,  so  that 
she  would  say: 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  do  rest  a  bit  — you  're  kill- 
ing yourself" 

The  result  was  that  the  garden  was  a  mixture, 
flowers  and  fruit,  park  and  kitchen  garden ;  and 
H^henever  he  went  into  Paris  Monsieur  Chebe  was 


The  Brewery  on  Rue  Blojidcl.       113 

careful  to  decorate  his  button-hole  with  a  rose  from 
his  rose-bushes. 

While  the  fine  weather  lasted,  the  good  people 
did  not  weary  of  admiring  the  sunsets  behind  the 
fortifications,  the  long  days,  the  bracing  country 
air.  Sometimes,  in  the  evening,  when  the  windows 
were  open,  they  sang  duets ;  and  in  presence  of 
the  stars  in  heaven,  which  began  to  twinkle  simul- 
taneously with  the  lanterns  on  the  railway  around 
the  city,  Ferdinand  would  become  poetical.  —  But 
when  the  rain  came  and  he  could  not  go  out,  what 
misery  !  Madame  Chebc,  a  d)'ed-in-the-wool  Pari- 
sian, sighed  for  the  narrow  streets  of  the  Marais, 
her  expeditions  to  the  market  of  Blancs-Mantcaux, 
and  to  the  shops  of  the  quarter. 

As  she  sat  by  the  window,  her  usual  station  for 
sewing  and  observation,  she  would  look  out  at  the 
damp  little  garden,  where  the  volubilis  and  the 
nasturtiums,  stripped  of  their  blossoms,  were  drop- 
ping away  from  the  lattices  with  an  air  of  exhaus- 
tion, at  the  long  straight  line  of  the  grassy  slope 
of  the  fortifications,  still  fresh  and  green,  and,  a 
little  farther  on,  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  the  ofificc 
of  the  Paris  omnibuses,  with  all  the  points  on  their 
route  inscribed  in  enticing  letters  on  the  green 
walls.  Whenever  one  of  the  omnibuses  lumbered 
away  on  its  journey,  she  followed  it  with  her  eye,  as 
a  government  clerk  at  Cayenne  or  Noumea  gazes 
after  the  packet  returning  to  France ;  she  made 
the  trip  with  it,  knew  just  where  it  would  stop,  at 
what  point  it  would  lurch  around  a  corner,  grazing 
the  shop-windows  with  its  wheels. 
S 


114  Fromont  and  Riskr, 

As  a  prisoner,  Monsieur  Chcbe  became  a  terrible 
trial.  He  could  not  work  in  the  garden.  On 
Sundays  the  fortifications  were  (Jeserted ;  he  could 
no  longer  strut  about  among  the  working  men's 
families  dining  on  the  grass,  and  pass  from  group 
to  group  in  a  neighborly  way,  his  feet  encased  in 
embroidered  slippers,  with  the  authoritative  bear- 
ing of  a  wealthy  landowner  of  the  vicinity.  That 
he  missed  more  than  anything  else,  consumed  as 
he  was  by  the  desire  to  make  people  think  about 
him.  So  that,  having  nothing  to  do,  having  no 
one  to  pose  before,  no  one  to  listen  to  his  schemes, 
his  stories,  the  anecdote  of  the  accident  to  the 
Due  d'Orleans  —  a  similar  accident  had  happened 
to  him  in  his  youth,  you  remember  —  the  un- 
fortunate Ferdinand  overwhelmed  his  wife  with 
reproaches. 

"  Your  daughter  banishes  us  —  your  daughter  is 
ashamed  of  us  —  " 

She  heard  nothing  but  that :  "  Your  daughter  — 
your  daughter  —  your  daughter  —  "  For,  in  his 
anger  with  Sidonie,  he  denied  her,  throwing  upon 
his  wife  the  whole  responsibility  for  that  monstrous 
and  unnatural  child.  It  was  a  genuine  relief  for 
poor  Madame  Chebe  when  her  husband  took  an 
omnibus  at  the  office  to  go  and  hunt  up  Delo- 
belle  —  whose  hours  for  lounging  were  always  at 
his  disposal  —  and  pour  into  his  bosom  all  his 
rancor  against  his  son-in-law  and  his  daughter. 

The  illustrious  Delobelle  also  bore  Risler  a 
grudge,  and  freely  said  of  him  :    "  He  is  a  dastard." 

The  great  man  had  hoped  to  form  an  integral 


The  Brcivcry  on  Riic  Blondcl.       1 1 5 

part  of  the  new  household,  to  be  the  organizer  of 
festivities,  the  arbiter  clcgaiitiaruni.  Instead  of 
which,  Sidonie  received  him  very  coldly,  and  Ris- 
ler  no  longer  took  him  to  the  brewery  even.  How- 
ever, the  actor  did  not  complain  too  loud,  and 
whenever  he  met  his  friend  he  overwhelmed  him 
with  attentions  and  flattery;  for  he  had  need  of 
him. 

Weary  of  awaiting  the  discerning  manager,  see- 
ing that  the  engagement  he  had  longed  for  so 
many  years  did  not  come,  it  had  occurred  to 
Delobelle  to  purchase  a  theatre  and  manage  it 
himself  He  counted  upon  Risler  for  the  funds. 
Opportunely  enough  there  happened  to  be  a  small 
theatre  on  the  boulevard  for  sale,  as  a  result  of  the 
failure  of  its  manager.  Delobelle  mentioned  it  to 
Risler,  at  first  very  vaguely,  in  a  wholly  hypo- 
thetical form  :  "  There  would  be  a  good  chance  to 
make  a  turn."  Risler  listened  with  his  usual 
phlegm,  saying:  "Indeed,  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  you."  And  to  a  more  direct  suggestion, 
not  daring  to  answer  "  No,"  he  took  refuge  behind 
such  phrases  as  "  I  will  see  "  —  "  Later  on  "  —  "I 
don't  say  no," — and  finally  uttered  the  unlucky 
words :   "  I  must  see  the  estimates." 

For  a  whole  week  the  actor  had  delved  away  at 
plans  and  figures,  seated  between  his  wife  and 
daughter,  who  watched  him  in  admiration  and  in- 
toxicated themselves  with  this  latest  dream.  The 
people  in  the  house  said :  "  Monsieur  Delobelle  is 
going  to  buy  a  theatre."  On  the  boulevard,  in 
the  actors'  cafes,  nothing  was  talked  of  but  this 


1 1 6  Fromont  and  Risler, 

transaction.  Delobcllc  did  not  conceal  the  fact 
that  he  had  found  someone  to  advance  the  funds ; 
the  result  being  that  he  was  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  unemployed  actors,  old  comrades  who 
tapped  him  familiarly  on  the  shoulder  and  recalled 
themselves  to  his  recollection.  "  You  know,  old 
boy."  He  promised  engagements,  breakfasted  at 
the  cafe,  wrote  letters  there,  saluted  those  who 
entered  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  held  very 
animated  colloquies  in  corners ;  and  already  two 
threadbare  authors  had  read  to  him  a  drama  in 
seven  tableaux,  which  was  "  exactly  what  he  want- 
ed "  for  his  opening  piece.  He  talked  about  "  my 
theatre  !  "  and  his  letters  were  addressed  :  "  Mon- 
sieur Delobelle,  Manager." 

When  he  had  composed  his  prospectus  and 
made  his  estimates,  he  went  to  the  factory  to  see 
Risler,  who,  being  very  busy,  made  an  appoint- 
ment with  him  on  Rue  Blondel ;  and  that  same 
evening,  Delobelle,  being  the  first  to  arrive  at  the 
brewery,  estabhshed  himself  at  their  old  table, 
ordered  a  pitcher  of  beer  and  two  glasses,  and 
waited.  He  waited  a  long  while,  with  his  eye  on 
the  door,  trembling  with  impatience.  Whenever 
anyone  entered,  the  actor  turned  his  head.  He 
had  spread  his  papers  on  the  table,  and  pretended 
to  be  reading  them,  with  animated  gestures,  move- 
ments of  the  head  and  lips. 

It  was  a  magnificent  opportunity,  unique  in  its 
way.  He  already  fancied  himself  acting —  for  that 
was  the  m.ain  point — acting,  in  a  theatre  of  his 
own,  parts  written  expressly  for  him,  to  suit  his 


The  Brciucry  on  Rue  Blonde  I.       1 1 7 

talents,  in  which  he  would  produce  all  the  effect 
of  — 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Monsieur  Chebe 
made  his  appearance  amid  the  pipe-smoke.  He 
was  as  surprised  and  annoyed  to  find  Delobelle 
there  as  Delobelle  himself  was  by  his  coming. 
He  had  written  to  his  son-in-law  that  morning 
that  he  wished  to  speak  with  him  on  a  matter  of 
very  serious  importance,  and  that  he  would  meet 
him  at  the  brewery.  It  was  an  affair  of  honor, 
entirely  between  themselves,  from  man  to  man. 
The  real  fact  concerning  this  affair  of  honor  was 
that  Monsieur  Chebe  had  given  notice  of  his  inten- 
tion to  leave  the  little  house  at  Montrouge,  and 
had  hired  a  shop  with  an  entresol  on  Rue  du 
Mail,  in  the  midst  of  a  business  district.  A  shop? 
Bless  my  soul,  yes.  And  now  he  was  a  little 
alarmed  regarding  his  hasty  step,  anxious  to  know 
how  his  son-in-law  would  take  it,  especially  as  the 
shop  cost  much  more  than  the  Montrouge  house, 
and  there  were  some  considerable  repairs  to  be 
made  at  the  outset.  As  he  had  long  been  ac- 
quainted with  his  son-in-law's  kindness  of  heart. 
Monsieur  Chcbc  had  determined  to  appeal  to  him 
at  once,  hoping  to  lead  him  into  his  game  and  to 
throw  upon  him  the  responsibility  for  this  do- 
mestic coup  d'etat.  Instead  of  Risler  he  found 
Delobelle. 

They  looked  askance  at  each  other,  with  an  un- 
friendly eye,  like  two  dogs  meeting  beside  the  same 
porringer.  Each  dix'incd  whom  the  other  was  await- 
ing, and  they  did  not  try  to  deceive  each  other. 


1 1 8  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"Isn't  my  son-in-law  here?"  asked  Monsieur 
Chebe,  eying  the  documents  spread  over  the  ta- 
ble, and  emphasizing  the  words  "  my  son-in-law," 
to  indicate  that  Risler  belonged  to  him  and  to  no- 
body else. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  him,"  Delobelle  replied, 
gathering  up  his  papers. 

He  pressed  his  lips  together,  as  he  added  with  a 
dignified,  mysterious,  but  always  theatrical  air : 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  very  great  importance." 

"  So  is  mine,"  declared  Monsieur  Chebe,  his 
three  hairs  standing  erect  like  a  porcupine's  quills. 

As  he  spoke  he  took  his  seat  on  the  bench  be- 
side Delobelle,  ordered  a  pitcher  and  two  glasses 
as  he  had  done,  then  sat  erect  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  his  back  against  the  wall,  waiting 
in  his  turn.  The  two  empty  glasses  in  front  of 
them,  intended  for  the  same  absentee,  seemed  to 
be  hurling  defiance  at  each  other. 

And  Risler  did  not  come. 

The  two  men,  drinking  in  silence,  lost  their  pa- 
tience and  fidgeted  about  on  the  bench,  each 
hoping  that  the  other  would  tire  of  waiting. 

At  last  their  ill-humor  overflowed,  and  naturally 
poor  Risler  received  the  whole  flood. 

"  What  an  outrage  to  keep  a  man  of  my  years 
waiting  so  long !  "  began  Monsieur  Chebe,  who 
never  mentioned  his  great  age  except  upon  such 
occasions, 

"  I  believe,  on  my  word,  that  he  is  making  sport 
of  us,"  replied  Monsieur  Delobelle. 

And  the  other : 


The  Brciucjy  on  Rue  Blondel.       1 1 9 

"  No  doubt  monsieur  had  company  to  dinner." 

"  And  such  company !  "  scornfully  exclaimed 
the  illustrious  actor,  in  whose  mind  bitter  memo- 
ries were  awakened. 

"The  fact  is  —  "  continued  Monsieur  Chebe. 

They  drew  closer  to  each  other  and  talked.  The 
hearts  of  both  were  full  in  respect  to  Sidonie  and 
Risler.  They  opened  the  flood-gates.  That  Ris- 
ler,  with  all  his  good-nature,  was  an  egotist  pure 
and  simple,  a  parvenu.  They  laughed  at  his  ac- 
cent and  his  bearing,  they  mimicked  certain  of  his 
peculiarities.  Then  they  talked  about  his  house- 
keeping, and,  lowering  their  voices,  they  became 
confidential,  laughed  familiarly  together,  were 
friends  once  more. 

Monsieur  Chebe  went  very  far :  "  Let  him  be- 
ware !  he  has  been  foolish  enough  to  send  the 
father  and  mother  away  from  their  child ;  if  any- 
thing happens  to  her,  he  can't  blame  us.  A  girl 
who  has  n't  her  parents'  example  before  her  eyes, 
you  understand  —  " 

"Certainly  —  certainly,"  said  Dclobelle  ;  "espe- 
cially as  Sidonie  has  become  a  great  flirt.  How- 
ever, what  can  you  expect?  Me  will  get  no  more 
than  he  deserves.  No  man  of  his  age  ought  to  — 
Hush  !  there  he  is  !  " 

Risler  had  entered  the  room,  and  was  walking 
toward  them,  distributing  hand-shakes  all  along 
the  benches. 

There  was  a  moment  of  embarrassment  between 
the  three  friends.  Risler  excused  himself  as  well 
as  he  could.      He  had  been  detained   at  home; 


I20  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Sidonic  had  company, — Delobcllc  touched  Mon- 
sieur Chebe's  foot  under  the  table  —  and,  as  he 
spoke,  the  poor  man,  decidedly  perplexed  by  the 
two  empty  glasses  that  awaited  him,  wondered  in 
front  of  which  of  the  two  he  ought  to  take  his  seat. 

Dclobelle  was  generous. 

"  You  have  business  together,  messieurs,  do  not 
let  me  disturb  you," 

He  added  in  an  undertone,  winking  at  Risler: 

"  I  have  the  papers." 

"The  papers?  "  echoed  the  other,  in  a  bewildered 
tone. 

"  The  estimates,"  whispered  the  actor. 

Thereupon,  with  a  great  show  of  discretion,  he 
withdrew  within  himself  and  resumed  the  reading 
of  his  documents,  his  head  in  his  hands  and  his 
fingers  in  his  ears. 

The  two  others  conversed  by  his  side,  first  in 
undertones,  then  louder,  for  Monsieur  Chebe's 
shrill,  piercing  voice  could  not  long  restrain  itself. 

—  He  was  n't  old  enough  to  be  buried,  deuce  take 
it!  —  He  would  have  died  of  ennui  at  Montrouge. 

—  What  he  must  have  was  the  bustle  and  activity 
of  Rue  du  Mail  or  Rue  du  Sentier,  —  of  the  busi- 
ness districts. 

"Yes,  but  a  shop?  Why  a  shop?"  Risler 
timidly  ventured   to  ask. 

"Why  a  shop?  —  why  a  shop?"  repeated  Mon- 
sieur Chebe,  red  as  an  Easter  Q^g,  and  raising  his 
voice  to  the  highest  pitch  in  its  register.  "  Why, 
because  I  'm  a  merchant.  Monsieur  Risler,  a  mer- 
chant and  son  of  a  merchant.      Oh !  I  see  what 


The  Breivery  on  Rue  Blondel.       121 

you  're  coming  at.  I  have  no  business.  But 
whose  fault  is  it?  If  the  people  who  shut  me  up 
at  Montrouge,  at  the  gates  of  Bicetre,  like  a 
paralytic,  had  had  the  good  sense  to  furnish  me 
with  the  money  to  start  in  business — "At  that 
point  Risler  succeeded  in  silencing  him,  and  there- 
after only  snatches  of  the  conversation  could  be 
heard  :  —  "a  more  con\'enient  shop  —  high-studded 

—  better  air  —  future   plans  —  enormous  business 

—  I  will  speak  when  the  time  comes —  Many  peo- 
ple will  be  astonished." — As  he  caught  these  frag- 
ments of  sentences,  Delobelle  became  more  and 
more  absorbed  in  his  estimates,  presenting  the 
eloquent  back  of  the  man  who  is  not  listening. 
Risler,  sorely  perplexed,  drank  a  swallow  of  beer 
from  time  to  time  to  keep  himself  in  countenance. 
At  last,  when  Monsieur  Chcbe  had  grown  calm, 
and  with  good  reason,  his  son-in-law  turned  with  a 
smile  to  the  illustrious  Delobelle,  and  met  the 
stern,  impassive  glance  which  seemed  to  say: 
"Well!  what  of  me?" 

"Ah!  j\Ion  DicH  !  —  that  is  true,"  thought  the 
poor  fellow. 

Changing  at  once  his  chair  and  glass,  he  took 
his  seat  opposite  the  actor.  But  Monsieur  Chcbe 
had  not  Delobelle's  courtesy.  Instead  of  dis- 
creetly moving  away,  he  took  his  glass  and 
joined  the  others,  so  that  the  great  man,  un- 
willing to  speak  before  him,  solemnly  replaced 
his  papers  in  his  pocket  a  second  time,  saying  to 
Risler : 

"  We  will  talk  this  over  later." 


122  From  out  and  Rislcr. 

Very  much  later,  in  truth,  for  Monsieur  Chebe 
had  reflected : 

"  My  son-in-law  is  so  good-natured.  If  I  leave 
him  with  this  swindler,  who  knows  what  he  may 
get  out  of  him?  " 

And  he-  remained  to  watch.  The  actor  was 
furious.  It  was  impossible  to  postpone  the  matter 
to  some  other  day,  for  Risler  told  them  that 
he  was  going  the  next  day  to  pass  a  month  at 
Savigny. 

"  A  month  at  Savigny  !  "  exclaimed  Monsieur 
Chebe,  incensed  at  the  thought  of  his  son-in-law 
escaping  him,     "How  about  business?" 

"  Oh !  I  shall  come  to  Paris  every  day  with 
Georges.  Monsieur  Gardinois  was  very  anxious 
to   see  his  little  Sidonie." 

Monsieur  Chebe  shook  his  head.  He  considered 
it  very  imprudent.  Business  is  business.  A  man 
ought  to  be  on  the  spot,  always  on  the  spot,  in  the 
breach.  Who  could  say?  the  factory  might  take 
fire  in  the  night.  And  he  repeated  sententiously: 
"  The  eye  of  the  master,  my  dear  fellow,  the  eye  of 
the  master,"  while  the  actor  —  who  was  little 
better  pleased  by  this  intended  departure  —  opened 
his  great  eyes,  giving  them  an  expression  at  once 
cunning  and  authoritative,  the  veritable  expression 
of  the  eye  of  the  master. 

At  last,  about  midnight,  the  last  Montrouge 
omnibus  bore  away  the  tyrannical  father-in-law, 
and  Delobelle  was  able  to  speak. 

"  In  the  first  place,  the  prospectus,"  he  said, 
preferring  not  to  attack  the   question  of  figures  at 


The  Brewery  on  Rue  Bloudcl.       123 

once ;  and  with  his  cyc-glasscs  on  his  nose,  he 
began,  in  a  declamatory  tone,  ahvays  upon  the 
stage :  "  When  one  considers  coolly  the  degree 
of  decrepitude  which  dramatic  art  has  reached  in 
France,  when  one  measures  the  distance  that  sep- 
arates the  stage  of  Molierc  —  "  There  were  several 
pages  like  that.  Risler  listened,  puffing  at  his 
pipe,  afraid  to  stir,  for  the  reader  looked  at  him 
every  moment  over  his  eye-glasses,  to  watch  the 
effect  of  his  phrases.  Unfortunately,  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  prospectus,  the  cafe  closed.  The 
lights  were  extinguished  ;  they  must  go.  —  And  the 
estimates?  —  It  was  agreed  that  they  should  read 
them  as  they  walked  along.  They  stopped  at 
every  gaslight.  The  actor  displayed  his  figures. 
So  much  for  the  hall,  so  much  for  lighting,  so 
much  for  poor  rates,  so  much  for  the  actors.  —  On 
that  question  of  the  actors,  he  was  firm. 

"The  best  point  about  the  affair,"  he  said,  "is 
that  we  shall  have  no  leading  man  to  pay.  Our 
leading  man  will  be  Bibi."  (  When  Delobelle 
mentioned  himself,  he  commonly  called  himself 
Bibi.)  "A  leading  man  is  paid  twenty  thousand 
francs  —  as  we  have  none  to  pay,  it 's  just  as  if  you 
put  twenty  thousand  francs  in  }'our  pocket.  Tell 
me,   isn't  that  true?" 

Risler  did  not  reply.  He  had  the  constrained 
manner,  the  wandering  eyes  of  the  man  whose 
thoughts  are  elsewhere.  The  reading  of  the  esti- 
mates being  concluded,  Delobelle,  dismayed  to 
find  that  they  were  drawing  near  the  corner  of 
Rue    dcs    Vieilles-Haudricttcs,    put    the    question 


124  Fromont  and  Risler, 

squarely.  Would  he  advance  the  money,  yes 
or  no? 

"Well ! — no,"  said  Risler,  inspired  by  an  heroic 
courage  which  he  owed  principally  to  the  prox- 
imity of  the  factory  and  to  the  thought  that  the 
welfare  of  his  family  was  at  stake. 

Delobelle  was  dumfounded.  He  had  believed 
that  the  business  was  as  good  as  done,  and  he 
stared  at  his  companion,  intensely  agitated,  his 
eyes  as  big  as  saucers,  and  rolling  his  papers  in 
his  hand. 

*'  No,"  Risler  continued,  "  I  can't  do  what  you 
ask,  for  this  reason." 

Thereupon  the  worthy  man,  slowly,  with  his 
usual  heaviness  of  speech,  explained  that  he  was 
not  rich.  Although  a  partner  in  a  wealthy  house, 
he  had  no  available  funds.  Georges  and  he  drew 
a  certain  sum  from  the  concern  every  month ;  then, 
when  they  struck  a  balance  at  the  end  of  the 
year,  they  divided  the  profits.  It  had  cost  him  a 
good  deal  to  begin  housekeeping:  all  his  savings. 
It  was  still  four  months  before  the  inventory. 
Where  was  he  to  obtain  the  30,000  francs  to  be 
paid  down  at  once  for  the  theatre?  And  then, 
beyond  all  that,  the  affair  could  not  be  successful. 

"  Why,  it  must  succeed.  —  Bibi  will  be  there  !  " 
As  he  spoke,  poor  Bibi  drew  himself  up  to  his  full 
height;  but  Risler  was  determined,  and  all  Bibi's 
arguments  met  the  same  refusal :  "  Later,  in  two 
or  three  years,  I  don't  say  something  may  not  be 
done." 

The  actor  fought  for  a  long  time,  yielding  his 


The  Brewery  on  Rue  Blondel.       125 

ground  inch  by  inch.  He  proposed  revising  his 
estimates.  The  thing  might  be  done  cheaper. 
"  It  would  still  be  too  dear  for  me,"  Risler  inter- 
rupted. "  My  name  does  n't  belong  to  mc.  It  is 
a  part  of  the  firm.  I  have  no  right  to  pledge  it. 
Imagine  my  going  into  bankruptcy !  "  His  voice 
trembled  as  he  uttered  the  word. 

"  But  if  everything  is  in  my  name,"  said  Delo- 
belle,  who  had  no  superstition.  He  tried  every- 
thing, invoked  the  sacred  interests  of  art,  went  so 
far  as  to  mention  the  pretty  little  actresses  whose 
alluring  glances  —  Risler  laughed  aloud. 

"  Come,  come,  you  rascal !  What 's  that  you  're 
saying?  You  forget  that  we  're  both  married  men, 
and  that  it 's  very  late  and  our  wives  are  expecting 
us. —  No  ill-will,  eh? — This  is  not  a  refusal,  you 
understand.  —  By  the  way,  come  and  see  me  after 
the  inventory.  We  will  talk  it  over  again.  Ah ! 
there  's  Pere  Achille  putting  out  his  gas.  —  I  must 
go  in.     Good-night." 

It  was  after  one  o'clock  when  the  actor  returned 
home. 

The  t^vo  women  were  waiting  for  him,  working 
as  usual,  but  with  a  sort  of  feverish  activity  which 
was  strange  to  them.  Every  moment  the  great  scis- 
sors that  Mamma  Delobelle  used  to  cut  the  brass 
wire  were  seized  with  strange  fits  of  trembling,  and 
Desiree's  little  fingers,  as  she  mounted  an  insect, 
moved  so  fast  that  it  gave  one  the  vertigo  to  watch 
them.  Even  the  long  feathers  of  the  little  birds 
strewn  about  on  the  table  before  her  seemed,  so 
to  speak,  more  brilliant,  more  richly  colored  than 


126  Fronton t  and  Rislcr, 

on  other  days.  It  was  because  a  lovely  visitor 
named  Hope  had  called  upon  them  that  evening. 
She  had  made  the  tremendous  effort  required  to 
climb  five  dark  flights  of  stairs,  and  had  opened 
the  door  of  the  little  room  to  cast  a  luminous 
glance  therein.  However  much  you  may  have 
been  deceived  in  life,  those  magic  gleams  always 
dazzle  you. 

"  Oh  !  if  your  father  might  only  succeed  !  "  said 
Mamma  Delobelle  from  time  to  time,  as  if  to  sum 
up  a  whole  world  of  happy  thoughts  to  which  her 
reverie  abandoned  itself. 

"  He  will  succeed,  mamma,  never  fear.  Mon- 
sieur Risler  is  so  kind,  I  will  answer  for  him.  And 
Sidonie  is  very  fond  of  us,  too,  although  since  she 
was  married  she  does  seem  to  neglect  her  old 
friends  a  little.  But  we  must  make  allowance  for 
the  difference  in  our  positions.  Besides,  I  never 
shall  forget  what  she  did  for  me." 

And  at  the  thought  of  what  Sidonie  had  done 
for  her,  the  little  cripple  applied  herself  with  even 
more  feverish  energy  to  her  work.  Her  electrified 
fingers  moved  with  redoubled  swiftness.  You  would 
have  said  that  they  were  running  after  some  flee- 
ing, elusive  thing,  like  happiness  for  example,  or 
the  love  of  someone  who  loves  you  not. 

"  What  was  it  that  she  did  for  you?  "  her  mother 
would  naturally  have  asked  her ;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment she  was  but  slightly  interested  in  what  her 
daughter  said.  She  was  thinking  exclusively  of 
her  great  man. 

"  No  !  do  you  think  so,  my  dear?     Just  suppose 


The  Bravery  on  Rue  Blondel.       127 

your  father  should  have  a  theatre  of  his  own  and 
act  again  as  he  used  to!  You  don't  remember; 
you  were  too  small  then.  But  he  had  a  tremen- 
dous success,  no  end  of  recalls.  One  night,  at 
Alenqon,  the  subscribers  to  the  theatre  gave  him 
a  gold  wreath.  Ah  !  he  ^\•as  a  brilliant  man  in 
those  days,  so  light-hearted,  so  glad  to  bo  alive. 
Those  who  see  him  now  don't  know  him,  poor 
man,  misfortune  has  changed  him  so.  Oh  well ! 
I  feel  sure  that  all  that 's  necessary  is  a  little  suc- 
cess to  make  him  young  and  happy  again.  And 
then  there  's  money  to  be  made  managing  theatres. 
The  manager  at  Nantes  had  a  carriage.  Can  you 
imagine  us  with  a  carriage?  Can  you  imagine  it,  I 
say?  That's  what  would  be  good  for  you.  You 
could  go  out,  leave  your  armchair  once  in  a  while. 
Your  father  would  take  us  into  the  country.  You 
would  sec  the  water  and  the  trees  you  have  had 
such  a  longing  to  see." 

"  Oh  !  the  trees,"  murmured  the  pale  little  re- 
cluse, trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

At  that  moment  the  street  door  of  the  house  was 
violently  closed,  and  Monsieur  Delobelle's  meas- 
ured step  echoed  in  the  vestibule.  There  was  a 
moment  of  speechless,  breathless  anguish.  The 
women  dared  not  look  at  each  other,  and  mamma's 
great  scissors  trembled  so  that  they  cut  the  wire 
crooked. 

The  poor  dc\-il  had  unqucstionabl}'  receix-ed  a 
terrible  blow.  His  illusions  crushed,  the  humilia- 
tion of  a  refusal,  the  jests  of  his  comrades,  the  bill 
at  the  cafe  where   he  had  breakfasted   on  credit 


128  Fromont  and  Risler. 

during  the  whole  period  of  his  managership,  a  bill 
which  must  be  paid  —  all  these  things  occurred  to 
him  in  the  silence  and  gloom  of  the  five  flights  he 
had  to  climb.  His  heart  was  torn.  Even  so,  the 
actor's  nature  was  so  strong  in  him  that  he  deemed 
it  his  duty  to  envelop  his  distress,  genuine  as  it 
was,  in  a  conventional  tragic  mask. 

As  he  entered,  he  paused,  cast  an  ominous 
glance  around  the  work-room,  at  the  table  cov- 
ered with  work,  his  little  supper  waiting  for  him  in 
a  corner,  and  the  two  dear  anxious  faces  looking 
up  at  him  with  glistening  eyes.  He  stood  a  full 
minute  without  speaking,  —  and  you  know  how 
long  a  minute's  silence  seems  on  the  stage  ;  then  he 
took  three  steps  forward,  sank  upon  a  low  chair  be- 
side the  table  and  exclaimed  in  a  hissing  voice : 

"  Ah  !  I  am  accursed  !  " 

At  the  same  time  he  dealt  the  table  such  a 
terrible  blow  with  his  fist  that  the  birds  and  insects 
for  ornament  flew  to  the  four  corners  of  the  room. 
His  terrified  wife  rose  and  timidly  approached  him, 
while  Desiree  half  rose  in  her  armchair  with  an 
expression  of  nervous  agony  that  distorted  all  her 
features. 

Lolling  on  his  chair,  his  arms  hanging  despon- 
dently by  his  sides,  his  head  on  his  chest,  the 
actor  soliloquized.  A  fragmentary  soliloquy,  in- 
terrupted by  sighs  and  dramatic  hiccoughs,  over- 
flowing with  imprecations  against  the  pitiless,  selfish 
bourgeois,  those  monsters  to  whom  the  artist  gives 
his  flesh  and  blood  for  food  and  drink. 

Then  he   reviewed  his  whole  theatrical  life,  his 


The  Brezvery  on  Rnc  Blondcl.       129 

early  triumphs,  the  golden  wreath  from  the  sub- 
scribers at  Alengon,  his  marriage  to  this  "  sainted 
woman,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  poor  creature 
who  stood  by  his  side,  with  tears  streaming  from 
her  eyes,  and  trembling  lips,  nodding  her  head 
dotingly  at  every  word  her  husband  said. 

In  very  truth,  a  person  who  had  never  heard 
of  the  illustrious  Delobelle  could  have  told  his 
history  in  detail  after  that  long  monologue.  He 
recalled  his  arrival  in  Paris,  his  humiliations,  his 
privations.  Alas  !  he  was  not  the  one  who  had 
known  privation.  One  had  but  to  look  at  his  full, 
rotund  face  beside  the  thin  drawn  faces  of  the  two 
women.     But  the  actor  did  not  look  so  closely. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  said,  continuing  to  intoxicate  him- 
self with  declamatory  phrases,  "  oh !  to  have 
struggled  so  long.  For  ten  years,  fifteen  years 
have  I  struggled  on,  supported  by  these  devoted 
creatures,  fed  by  them." 

"  Papa,  papa,  hush,"  cried  Desiree,  clasping  her 
hands. 

"  Yes,  fed  by  them,  I  say  —  and  I  do  not  blush 
for  it.  For  I  accept  all  this  devotion  in  the  name 
of  sacred  art.  But  this  is  too  much.  Too  much  has 
been  put  upon  me.     I  renounce  the  stage." 

"Oh!  my  dear,  what's  that  you  say?"  cried 
Mamma  Delobelle,  rushing  to  his  side. 

"  No,  leave  me.  I  have  reached  the  end  of  my 
strength.  They  have  slain  the  artist  in  me.  It  is 
all  over.     I  renounce  the  stage." 

If  you  had  seen  the  two  women  throw  their  arms 
about  him  then,  implore  him  to  struggle  on,  prove 


130  Fromont  and  Risler. 

to  him  that  he  had  no  right  to  give  up,  you  could 
not  have  restrained  your  tears.  But  Delobelle 
resisted. 

He  yielded  at  last,  however,  and  promised  to 
continue  the  fight  a  little  while,  since  it  was  their 
wish ;  but  it  required  many  an  entreaty  and  caress 
to  carry  the  point. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  the  great  man,  fam- 
ished by  his  monologue,  relieved  by  having  given 
vent  to  his  despair,  was  seated  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  supping  with  excellent  appetite,  feeling  no 
other  ill  effect  than  a  trifling  weariness,  like  an 
actor  who  has  played  a  very  long  and  very  dra- 
matic part  during  the  evening. 

In  such  cases,  the  actor  who  has  stirred  the 
emotions  of  a  whole  audience  and  wept  genuine 
tears  on  the  stage,  throws  it  all  aside  when  he 
has  left  the  theatre.  He  leaves  his  emotion  in 
his  dressing-room  with  his  costume  and  his  wigs, 
whereas,  the  more  ingenuous,  more  keenly  im- 
pressed spectators  return  home  with  red  eyes  and 
oppressed  hearts,  and  the  extraordinary  tension  of 
their  nerves  keeps  them  awake  a  long  while. 

Little  Desiree  and  Mamma  Delobelle  did  not 
sleep  much  that  night! 


At  Saviguy,  131 


IV. 

AT    SAVIGNY. 

It  was  a  great  misfortune,  that  sojourn  of  the  two 
families  at  Savigny  for  a  month. 

After  an  interval  of  two  years  Georges  and 
Sidonie  found  themselves  side  by  side  once  more 
on  the  old  estate,  too  old  not  to  be  always  like 
itself,  where  the  stones,  the  ponds,  the  trees, 
always  the  same,  seemed  to  cast  derision  upon  all 
that  changes  and  passes  away.  A  renewal  of 
intercourse  under  such  circumstances  must  have 
been  disastrous  to  two  natures  that  were  not  of  a 
very  different  stamp,  and  far  more  virtuous  than 
those  two. 

As  for  Claire,  she  had  never  been  so  happy ; 
Savigny  had  never  seemed  so  lovely  to  her.  What 
joy  to  walk  with  her  child  over  the  greensward 
where  she  herself  had  walked  as  a  child,  to  sit,  a 
young  mother,  upon  the  shaded  seats  from  which 
her  own  mother  had  looked  on  at  her  childish 
games  years  before ;  to  go,  leaning  on  Georgcs's 
arm,  to  seek  out  the  nooks  where  they  had  played 
together.  She  felt  a  tranquil  contentment,  the 
overflowing  happiness  of  placid  lives  which  enjoy 
their  bliss  in  silence  ;  and  all  day  long  her  peignoirs 
swept  along  the  paths,  guided  by  the  tiny  foot- 


132  Froinoui  and  Risler. 

steps  of  the  child,  her  cries  and  her  demands  upon 
her  mother's  care. 

Sidonie  seldom  took  part  in  these  maternal 
promenades.  She  said  that  the  chatter  of  children 
tired  her,  and  therein  she  agreed  with  old  Gar- 
dinois,  who  seized  upon  any  pretext  to  annoy 
his  granddaughter.  He  believed  that  he  accom- 
plished that  object  by  devoting  himself  exclusively 
to  Sidonie,  and  arranging  even  more  entertain- 
ments for  her  than  on  her  former  visit.  The 
carriages  that  had  been  buried  in  the  carriage- 
house  for  two  years,  and  were  dusted  once  a  week 
because  the  spiders  spun  their  webs  on  the  silk 
cushions,  were  placed  at  her  disposal.  The  horses 
were  harnessed  three  times  a  day,  and  the  gate  was 
continually  turning  on  its  hinges.  Everybody  in 
the  house  followed  this  impulse  of  worldliness. 
The  gardener  paid  more  attention  to  his  flowers 
because  Madame  Risler  selected  the  finest  ones  to 
wear  in  her  hair  at  dinner.  And  then  there  were 
calls  to  be  made.  Luncheon  parties  were  given, 
parties  at  which  Madame  Fromont  Jeune  presided, 
but  at  which  Sidonie,  with  her  sprightly  manners, 
shone  supreme.  Indeed  Claire  often  left  her  a 
clear  field.  The  child  had  its  hours  for  sleeping 
and  riding  out,  with  which  no  amusements  could 
interfere.  The  mother  w^as  compelled  to  remain 
away,  and  it  often  happened  that  she  was  unable 
to  go  with  Sidonie  to  meet  the  partners  when  they 
came  from  Paris  at  night. 

"  You  will  make  my  excuses,"  she  would  say,  as 
she  went  up  to  her  room. 


At  Savigny.  133 

Madame  Rislcr  was  triumphant.  A  picture  of 
elegant  indolence,  she  would  drive  away  behind  the 
galloping  horses,  unconscious  of  the  swiftness  of 
their  pace,  without  a  thought  in  her  mind. 

The  fresh  breeze  blowing  through  her  veil  alone 
gave  her  a  semblance  of  life.  A  tavern  seen 
vaguely  through  her  drooping  eyelids  at  the 
corner  of  a  road,  poorly  dressed  children  playing 
on  the  grass  between  the  ruts,  reminded  her  of  her 
Sunday  walks  with  Risler  and  her  parents,  and  the 
little  shudder  that  passed  over  her  at  the  memory 
made  her  the  more  comfortable  in  her  cool,  grace- 
fully draped  gown,  in  the  rocking  motion  of  the 
caleche  which  lulled  her  mind  to  sleep,  happy  and 
reassured. 

Other  carriages  were  always  waiting  at  the 
station.  Two  or  three  times  she  heard  someone 
near  her  whisper :  "  That  is  Madame  Fromont 
Jeune;"  and  indeed,  it  was  a  simple  matter  for 
people  to  make  the  mistake,  seeing  the  three 
return  together  from  the  station,  Sidonic  sitting 
beside  Georges  on  the  back  seat,  laughing  and 
talking  with  him,  and  Risler  facing  them,  smiling 
contentedly  with  his  broad  hands  spread  flat  upon 
his  knees,  but  evidently  feeling  a  little  out  of  place 
in  that  fine  carriage.  The  thought  that  she  was 
taken  for  Madame  Fromont  made  her  very  proud, 
and  she  became  a  little  more  accustomed  to  it 
every  day.  On  their  arrival  at  the  chateau,  the 
two  families  separated  until  dinner  ;  but,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  his  wife  sitting  tranquilly  beside  the  sleep- 
ing  child,    Georges   Fromont,    too   young   to    be 


134  Fromont  and  Risler. 

absorbed,  by  the  joys  of  domesticity,  was  con- 
stantly thinking  of  the  brilHant  Sidonie,  whose  voice 
he  could  hear  pouring  forth  triumphant  roulades 
under  the  trees  in  the  garden. 

While  the  whole  chateau  was  thus  transformed 
in  obedience  to  the  whims  of  a  young  woman,  old 
Gardinois  continued  to  lead  the  narrow  life  of  a  dis- 
contented, idle,  impotent  parvenu.  The  most  suc- 
cessful means  of  distraction  he  had  discovered  was 
espionage.  The  goings  and  comings  of  his  servants, 
the  remarks  that  were  made  about  him  in  the 
kitchen,  the  basket  of  fruit  and  vegetables  brought 
every  morning  from  the  kitchen-garden  to  the 
pantry,  were  subjects  of  continual  investigation. 
He  knew  no  greater  pleasure  than  to  find  some- 
body at  fault.  It  occupied  his  mind,  gave  him  a 
measure  of  importance,  and  at  dinner,  while  his 
guests  listened  in  silence,  he  would  at  great  length 
describe  the  misdemeanor,  the  stratagem  to  which 
he  had  resorted  to  detect  it,  the  culprit's  manner, 
his  terror  and  his  entreaties. 

For  the  purposes  of  this  constant  spying  upon 
his  household,  the  goodman  made  use  of  a  stone 
bench  set  in  the  gravel  behind  an  enormous  pau- 
lownia.  He  would  sit  there  whole  days  at  a  time, 
neither  reading  nor  thinking,  simply  watching  to 
see  who  went  in  or  out.  For  the  night  he  had 
invented  something  different.  In  the  great  vesti- 
bule at  the  main  entrance,  which  opened  upon  the 
stoop  with  its  array  of  bright  flowers,  he  had 
caused  an  opening  to  be  made  leading  to  his  bed- 
room on  the  floor  above.     An  acoustic  tube  of  an 


At  Savigny.  135 

improved  type  was  supposed  to  convey  to  his  ears 
every  sound  on  the  ground  floor,  even  to  the  con- 
versation of  the  servants  taking  the  air  on  the 
stoop. 

UnUickily,  the  instrument  was  so  perfect  that  it 
exaggerated  all  the  noises,  confused  them  and  pro- 
longed them,  and  the  incessant,  regular  ticking  of 
a  great  clock,  the  cries  of  a  parroquct  kept  in  one 
of  the  lower  rooms,  the  clucking  of  a  hen  in 
search  of  a  lost  kernel  of  corn,  were  all  Monsieur 
Gardinois  could  hear  when  he  applied  his  ear  to 
the  tube.  As  for  voices,  they  reached  him  in  the 
form  of  a  confused  buzzing,  like  the  muttering  of  a 
crowd,  in  which  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish 
anything.  He  had  nothing  to  show  for  the  expense 
of  the  apparatus,  and  he  concealed  his  wonderful 
tube  in  a  fold  of  his  bed  curtains. 

One  night  the  goodman,  who  had  fallen  asleep, 
was  awakened  suddenly  by  the  creaking  of  a  door. 
It  was  an  extraordinary  thing  at  that  hour.  The 
whole  household  was  asleep.  Nothing  could  be 
heard  save  the  footsteps  of  the  watchdogs  on  the 
sand,  or  their  scratching  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  in 
which  an  owl  was  screeching.  An  excellent 
opportunity  to  use  his  listening  tube.  Upon  putting 
it  to  his  ear  Monsieur  Gardinois  was  assured  that 
he  had  made  no  mistake.  The  sounds  continued. 
One  door  was  opened,  then  another.  The  bolt  of 
the  front  door  was  thrown  back  with  an  effort. 
But  neither  Pyramus  norThisbe,  not  even  Kiss,  the 
formidable  Newfoundland,  had  made  a  sign.  lie 
rose  softly  to  see  who  those  strange  burglars  could 


136  Fr 0711011 1  and  Rising 

be,  who  were  leaving  the  house  instead  of  entering 
it ;  and  this  is  what  he  saw  through  the  slats  of  his 
blind: 

A  tall,  slender  young  man,  with  Georges's  figure 
and  carriage,  arm-in-arm  with  a  woman  in  a  lace 
hood.  They  stopped  first  at  the  bench  by  the 
paulownia,  which  was  in  full  flower. 

It  was  a  superb,  snow-white  night.  The  moon, 
brushing  the  tree-tops,  made  numberless  flakes  of 
light  amid  the  dense  foliage.  The  terraces,  white 
with  moonbeams,  where  the  Newfoundlands  in 
their  curly  coats  went  to  and  fro,  watching  the 
night  butterflies,  the  smooth,  deep  waters  of  the 
ponds,  all  shone  with  a  mute,  calm  brilliance,  as  if 
reflected  in  a  silver  mirror.  Here  and  there  glow- 
worms twinkled  on  the  edges  of  the  greensward. 

The  two  promenaders  remained  for  a  moment 
beneath  the  shade  of  the  paulownia,  sitting  silent 
on  the  bench,  lost  in  the  dense  darkness  which  the 
moon  makes  where  its  rays  do  not  reach.  Sud- 
denly they  appeared  in  the  bright  light,  wrapped 
in  a  languishing  embrace,  walked  slowly  across  the 
main  avenue,  and  passed  from  sight  among  the 
trees. 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  said  old  Gardinois,  recogniz- 
ing them.  Indeed,  what  need  had  he  to  recognize 
them?  Did  not  the  silence  of  the  dogs,  the  aspect 
of  the  sleeping  house,  tell  him  more  clearly  than 
anything  else  could,  what  species  of  impudent 
crime,  unknown  and  unpunished,  haunted  the  ave- 
nues in  his  park  by  night?  Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
old  peasant  was  overjoyed  by  his  discovery.     He 


At  SavigJiy.  137 

returned  to  bed  without  a  light,  chuckhng  to  him- 
self, and  in  the  little  cabinet  filled  with  hunting 
implements,  from  which  he  had  watched  them, 
thinking  at  first  that  he  had  to  do  with  burglars, 
the  moon's  rays  shone  upon  naught  save  the  fowl- 
ing-pieces hanging  on  the  wall  and  the  boxes  of 
cartridges  of  all  sizes. 

They  had  taken  up  the  thread  of  their  love  at 
the  corner  of  the  same  avenue.  The  year  that 
had  passed,  marked  by  hesitation,  by  vague  strug- 
gles, by  fruitless  resistance,  seemed  to  have  been 
only  a  preparation  for  their  meeting.  And  it 
must  be  said  that,  when  once  the  fatal  step  was 
taken,  they  were  surprised  at  nothing  so  much  as 
that  they  had  postponed  it  so  long.  Georges 
Fromont  especially  was  seized  by  a  mad  passion. 
He  was  false  to  his  wife,  his  best  friend ;  he  was 
false  to  Risler,  his  partner,  the  faithful  companion 
of  his  every  hour. 

It  was  a  constant  renewal,  a  sort  of  overflow  of 
remorse,  wherein  his  passion  was  intensified  by 
the  magnitude  of  his  sin.  Sidonie  became  his  one 
engrossing  thought,  and  he  discovered  that  until 
then  he  had  n(,)t  lived.  As  for  her,  her  love  was 
made  up  of  vanity  and  spite.  The  thing  that  she 
relished  above  all  else  was  Claire's  degradation  in 
her  eyes.  Ah  !  if  she  could  only  have  said  to  her: 
*'  Your  husband  loves  me,  —  he  is  false  to  you  with 
me,"  her  pleasure  would  have  been  even  greater. 
As  for  Risler,  in  her  view  he  richly  deserved  what 
had  happened  to  him.  In  her  old  apprentice's 
jargon,  in  which  she  still  thought,  even  if  she  did 


1 38  Fromont  and  Risler. 

not  speak  it,  the  poor  man  was  only  "  an  old 
fool,"  whom  she  had  taken  as  a  stepping-stone  to 
fortune,  "An  old  fool"  is  made  to  be  deceived! 
During  the  day  Savigny  belonged  to  Claire,  to 
the  child  who  ran  about  upon  the  gravel,  laughing 
at  the  birds  and  the  clouds,  and  who  grew  apace. 
The  mother  and  child  had  for  their  own  the  day- 
light, the  paths  filled  with  sunbeams.  But  the 
blue  nights  were  given  over  to  adultery,  to  that 
sin  firmly  installed  in  the  chateau,  which  talked  in 
undertones,  crept  noiselessly  behind  the  closed 
blinds,  and  in  face  of  which  the  sleeping  house 
became  dumb  and  blind,  and  resumed  its  stony 
impassibility,  as  if  it  were  ashamed  to  see  and 
hear. 


Planus  Irciiiblcs  for  his  Cash-box.     139 


V. 


SIGISMOND   PLANUS   TREMBLES   FOR   HIS 
CASH-BOX. 

"A  CARRIAGE,  my  dear  Chorche?  —  I  —  have  a 
carriage?     What  for?" 

'*  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Risler,  that  it 's  quite 
essential  for  you.  Our  business,  our  relations  are 
extending  every  day ;  the  coupe  is  no  longer  enough 
for  us.  Besides,  it  does  n't  look  well  to  see  one  of 
the  partners  always  in  his  carriage  and  the  other 
on  foot.  Believe  me,  it 's  a  necessary  outlay,  and 
of  course  it  will  go  into  the  general  expenses  of 
the  firm.     Come,  resign  yourself  to  the  inevitable." 

It  was  genuine  resignation. 

It  seemed  to  Risler  as  if  he  were  stealing  some- 
thing in  taking  the  money  for  such  an  unheard-of 
luxury  as  a  carriage ;  however,  he  ended  by  yield- 
ing to  Georges's  persistent  representations,  thinking 
as  he  did  so : 

"This  will  make  Sidonic  very  happy !  " 

The  poor  fellow  had  no  suspicion  that  Sidonic 
herself,  a  month  before,  had  selected  at  Binder's 
the  coup6  which  Georges  insisted  upon  giving  her, 
and  which  was  to  be  charged  to  expense  account 
in  order  not  to  alarm  the  husband. 

Honest  Risler  was  so  plainly  created  to  be  de- 


140  Fr onion t  and  Rislcr. 

ceived.  His  inborn  uprightness,  the  impHcit  con- 
fidence in  men  and  things  which  was  the  foundation 
of  his  transparent  nature  had  been  intensified  of 
late  by  preoccupation  resulting  from  his  pursuit 
of  the  Risler  Press,  an  invention  destined  to  revo- 
lutionize the  v/all-paper  industry,  and  representing 
in  his  eyes  his  contribution  to  the  partnership 
assets.  When  he  laid  aside  his  drawings  and  left 
his  little  workroom  on  the  first  floor,  his  face  inva- 
riably wore  the  absorbed  look  of  the  man  who  has 
his  life  on  one  side,  his  anxieties  on  another. 
What  a  delight  it  was  to  him,  therefore,  to  find  his 
home  always  tranquil,  his  wife  always  in  good 
humor,  becomingly  dressed  and  smiling.  Without 
undertaking  to  explain  the  change  to  himself,  he 
recognized  that  for  some  time  past  the  "  little 
one"  had  not  been  as  before  in  her  treatment  of 
him.  She  allowed  him  to  resume  his  old  habits : 
the  pipe  at  dessert,  the  little  nap  after  dinner,  the 
appointments  at  the  brewery  with  Chebe  and 
Delobelle.  Their  apartments  also  w^ere  trans- 
formed, embellished.  From  the  simple  expedients 
of  jardinieres  filled  with  flowers  and  a  bright  red 
salon,  Sidonie  progressed  to  the  latest  caprices  of 
fashion,  the  rage  for  antique  furniture  and  rare 
porcelain.  The  hangings  of  her  bedroom  were  of 
a  delicate  blue  silk,  with  a  long  nap  like  the  inside 
of  a  jewel  casket.  A  grand  piano  by  a  famous 
maker  made  its  appearance  in  the  salon  in  place 
of  the  old  one,  and  Madame  Dobson,  the  singing 
teacher,  came  no  longer  twice  a  week,  but  every 
day,  music-roll  in  hand. 


Planus  trembles  for  his  Cash-box.     141 

Of  a  curious  type  was  that  young  woman  of 
American  extraction,  with  hair  of  an  acid  blond, 
like  lemon-pulp,  over  a  bold  forehead  and  metallic 
blue  eyes.  As  her  husband  would  not  allow  her 
to  go  on  the  stage,  she  gave  lessons,  and  sang  in 
some  bourgeois  salons.  As  a  result  of  living  in 
the  artificial  world  of  compositions  for  voice  and 
piano,  she  had  contracted  a  species  of  sentimental 
frenzy. 

She  was  romance  itself  In  her  mouth  the 
words  "  love "  and  "  passion "  seemed  to  have 
eighty  syllables,  she  uttered  them  with  so  much 
expression.  Oh !  expression.  That  was  what 
Mistress  Dobson  placed  before  everything,  and 
what  she  tried,  and  tried  in  vain,  to  impart  to 
her  pupil. 

"  Ay  Chiquita^'  upon  which  Paris  fed  for  several 
seasons,  was  then  at  the  height  of  its  popularity. 
Sidonie  studied  it  conscientiously,  and  all  the 
morning  she  could  be  heard  singing: 

"  On  dit  que  tu  te  fnaries, 
Tu  sa/s  que  fen  pj(is  inoun'r.'"  ^ 

"  Mouri-i-i-i-i-r  !  "  the  expressive  Madame  Dob- 
son  would  interpose,  while  her  hands  wandered 
feebly  over  the  piano-keys ;  and  die  she  would, 
raising  her  light-blue  eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  wildly 
throwing  back  her  head.  Sidonie  could  never 
accomplish  it.  Her  mischievous  eyes,  her  lips, 
swollen   with   fulness    of  life,  were    not   made  for 

^  They  say  that  thou  'rt  to  marry, 
Thou  know'st  that  I  may  die. 


142  Froinont  and  Risler, 

such  ^oHan  harp  sentimentalities.  The  refrains 
of  Offenbach  or  Herv6,  interspersed  with  unex- 
pected notes,  in  which  one  resorts  to  expressive 
gestures  for  aid,  to  a  motion  of  the  head  or  the 
body,  would  have  suited  her  better ;  but  she  dared 
not  admit  it  to  her  languorous  instructress.  By 
the  way,  although  she  had  been  made  to  sing  a 
great  deal  at  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire's,  her  voice 
was  still  fresh  and  not  unpleasing. 

Having  no  social  connections,  she  came  gradu- 
ally to  make  a  friend  of  her  singing-mistress. 
She  would  keep  her  to  breakfast,  take  her  to 
drive  in  the  new  coupe  and  to  assist  In  her  pur- 
chases of  dresses  and  jewels.  Madame  Dobson's 
sentimental  and  sympathetic  tone  led  one  to  re- 
pose confidence  in  her.  Her  constant  repinings 
seemed  to  long  to  attract  other  repinings.  Si- 
donie  told  her  of  Georges,  of  their  relations, 
attempting  to  palliate  her  offence  by  blaming  the 
cruelty  of  her  parents  in  marrying  her  by  force 
to  a  rich  man  much  older  than  herself  Madame 
Dobson  at  once  showed  a  disposition  to  assist 
them ;  not  that  the  little  woman  was  venal,  but 
she  had  a  passion  for  passion,  a  taste  for  romantic 
intrigue.  As  she  was  unhappy  in  her  own  home, 
married  to  a  dentist  who  beat  her,  all  husbands 
were  monsters  in  her  eyes,  and  poor  Risler  espe- 
cially seemed  to  her  a  horrible  tyrant  whom  his 
wife  was  quite  justified  in  hating  and  deceiving. 

She  was  an  active  confidant  and  a  very  useful 
one.  Two  or  three  times  a  week  she  would  bring 
tickets  for  a  box  at  the  Opera  or  the  Italiens,  or 


Planus  trembles  for  his  Cash-box.     143 

some  one  of  the  little  theatres  which  enjo}'  a 
temporary  vogue,  and  cause  all  Paris  to  go  from 
one  end  of  Paris  to  the  other  for  a  season.  In 
Risler's  eyes  the  tickets  came  from  Madame 
Dobson ;  she  had  as  many  as  she  chose  to  the 
theatres  where  operas  were  given.  The  poor 
wretch  had  no  suspicion  that  one  of  those  boxes 
for  an  important  "first  night"  had  often  cost 
his  partner  ten  or  fifteen  louis.  It  was  really 
too  easy  to  deceive  such  a  husband  as  that. 
His  inexhaustible  credulity  quietly  accepted  every 
falsehood ;  moreover,  he  knew  nothing  of  that  fic- 
titious society  in  which  his  wife  was  already  be- 
ginning to  be  known.  He  never  accompanied 
her.  On  the  few  occasions,  soon  after  their  mar- 
riage, when  he  had  escorted  her  to  the  theatre,  he 
had  fallen  asleep,  to  his  shame,  being  too  simple- 
minded  to  care  about  the  audience  and  too  slow 
of  comprehension  to  be  interested  in  the  play. 
So  that  he  was  infinitely  obliged  to  Madame 
Dobson  for  taking  his  place  with  Sidonie.  She 
did  it  with  such  good  grace  ! 

In  the  evening,  when  his  wife  went  away,  always 
splendidly  attired,  he  would  gaze  admiringly  at 
her,  having  no  suspicion  of  the  cost  of  her 
dresses,  certainly  none  of  the  man  who  paid  for 
them,  and  would  await  her  return  at  his  tabic 
by  the  fire,  busy  with  his  drawing,  free  from 
care,  and  happy  to  be  able  to  say  to  himself: 
"  What  a  good  time  she  is  having !  " 

On  the  floor  below,  at  the  Fromonts',  the  same 
comedy  was    being  played,  but  with  a  transposi- 


144  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

tion  of  parts.  There  it  was  the  young  wife  who 
sat  by  the  fire.  Every  evening,  half  an  hour 
after  Sidonie's  departure,  the  great  gate  swung 
open  to  give  passage  to  the  Fromont  coupe  con- 
veying monsieur  to  his  club.  What  would  you 
have?  Business  has  its  exigencies.  All  the  great 
deals  are  arranged  at  the  club,  around  the  bouillotte 
table,  and  a  man  must  go  there  or  suffer  the  pen- 
alty of  seeing  his  business  fall  off.  Claire  inno- 
cently believed  it  all.  When  her  husband  had 
gone,  she  felt  depressed  for  a  moment.  She  would 
have  liked  so  much  to  keep  him  with  her  or  to  go 
out  leaning  on  his  arm,  to  seek  enjoyment  with 
him.  But  the  sight  of  the  child  cooing  in  front 
of  the  fire  and  kicking  her  little  pink  feet  while 
she  was  being  undressed,  speedily  soothed  the 
mother.  Then  the  eloquent  word  "  business," 
the  merchant's  reason  of  state,  was  always  at 
hand  to  help  her  to  resign  herself 

Georges  and  Sidonie  met  at  the  theatre.  Their 
feeling  at  first  when  they  were  together  was  one 
of  satisfied  vanity.  People  stared  at  them  a  great 
deal.  She  was  really  pretty  now,  and  her  irregular 
but  attractive  features,  which  required  the  aid  of 
all  the  eccentricities  of  the  prevailing  style  in  order 
to  produce  their  full  effect,  adapted  themselves  to 
them  so  perfectly  that  you  would  have  said  they 
were  invented  expressly  for  her.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments they  went  away  and  Madame  Dobson  was 
left  alone  in  the  box.  They  had  hired  a  small 
suite  on  Avenue  Gabriel,  near  the  rond-point  of  the 
Champs  Elysees  —  the  dream  of  the  young  women 


Plaims  tirniblcs  for  his  Cash-box.     145 

at  the  Le  Mire  establishment  —  two  luxuriously 
furnished,  quiet  rooms,  where  the  silence  of  the 
wealthy  quarter,  disturbed  only  by  passing  car- 
riages, formed  a  blissful  envelope  for  their  love. 
Little  by  little,  when  she  had  become  accustomed 
to  her  sin,  she  conceived  the  most  audacious 
whims.  From  her  old  working  days  she  had  re- 
tained in  the  depths  of  her  memory  the  names  of 
public  balls,  of  famous  restaurants  where  she  was 
eager  to  go  now,  just  as  she  took  pleasure  in  caus- 
ing the  doors  to  be  thrown  open  for  her  at  the 
establishments  of  the  great  dressmakers,  whose 
signs  only  she  had  known  in  her  earlier  days.  For 
what  she  sought  above  all  else  in  this  liaison  was 
revenge  for  the  sorrows  and  humiliations  of  her 
youth.  Nothing  delighted  her  so  much,  for  ex- 
ample, when  returning  from  an  evening  drive  in 
the  Bois,  as  a  supper  at  the  Caf6  Anglais  with  the 
sounds  of  luxurious  vice  about  her.  From  these 
repeated  excursions  she  brought  back  peculiarities 
of  speech  and  behavior,  equivocal  refrains  and  a 
style  of  dress  that  imported  into  the  bourgeois 
atmosphere  of  the  old  commercial  house  an  accu- 
rate reproduction  of  the  most  advanced  t}pc  of  the 
Paris-Cocotte  of  that  period. 

At  the  factory  they  began  to  suspect  something. 
The  women  of  the  people,  even  the  poorest,  are  so 
quick  at  picking  a  dress  to  pieces  !  When  Madame 
Risler  went  out,  about  three  o'clock,  fifty  pairs  of 
sharp,  envious  eyes,  lying  in  ambush  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  polishing-shop,  watched  her  pass, 
penetrating  to    the    lowest   depths   of  her    guilty 


146  Fromont  and  Rislcr, 

conscience  through  her  black  velvet  dolman  and 
her  cuirass  of  sparkling  jet. 

Although  she  did  not  suspect  it,  all  the  secrets 
of  that  mad  brain  were  flying  about  her  like  the 
ribbons  that  played  upon  her  bare  neck ;  and  her 
daintily  shod  feet,  in  their  bronzed  boots  with  ten 
buttons,  told  the  story  of  all  sorts  of  clandestine 
expeditions,  of  the  carpeted  stairways  they  as- 
cended at  night  on  their  way  to  supper,  and  the 
warm  fur  robes  in  which  they  were  wrapped  when 
the  coupe  made  the  circuit  of  the  lake  in  the  dark- 
ness dotted  with  lanterns. 

The  workwomen  laughed  sneeringly  and  whis- 
pered :  "  Just  look  at  that  Tata  Bebelle  !  There  's 
a  way  to  dress  to  go  out.  She  don't  rig  herself 
up  like  that  to  go  to  mass,  that 's  sure  !  To  think 
that  it  ain't  three  years  since  she  used  to  start  for 
the  shop  every  morning  in  an  old  waterproof,  and 
two  sous'  worth  of  roasted  chestnuts  in  her  pockets 
to  keep  her  fingers  warm.  Now  she  rides  in  her 
carriage."  And  amid  the  talc  dust  and  the  roaring 
of  the  stoves,  red-hot  in  winter  and  summer  alike, 
more  than  one  poor  girl  reflected  on  the  caprice 
of  chance  in  absolutely  transforming  a  woman's 
existence,  and  began  to  dream  vaguely  of  a  mag- 
ficent  future  which  might  perhaps  be  in  store  for 
her  without  her  suspecting  it. 

In  everybody's  opinion  Risler  was  a  dishonored 
husband. 

Two  tireiirs  ^  in  the  printing-room  —  faithful  pa- 

^  The  name  given  to  the  boys  who  hold  the  ends  ot  a  roll  of 
wall-paper  while  it  is  being  printed. 


Planus  trembles  for  his  Cash-box.     147 

trons  of  the  Folios  Diamatiqucs  —  declared  that 
they  had  seen  Madame  Risler  several  times  at  their 
theatre,  accompanied  by  some  man  who  kept  out 
of  sight  at  the  rear  of  the  box.  Pcre  Achille,  too, 
told  of  astounding  things.  That  Sidonic  had  a 
lover,  that  she  had  several  lovers  in  fact,  no 
one  entertained  a  doubt.  But  no  one  had  as  yet 
thought  of  Fromont  Jeune. 

And  yet  she  showed  no  sort  of  prudence  In  her 
relations  with  him.  On  the  contrary  she  seemed 
to  make  a  parade  of  them ;  it  may  be  that  that 
was  what  saved  them.  How  many  times  she 
accosted  him  boldly  on  the  steps  to  agree  upon  a 
rendezvous  for  the  evening!  How  many  times 
she  had  amused  herself  making  him  shudder  by 
speaking  into  his  eyes  before  everyone  !  When  the 
first  confusion  had  passed,  Georges  was  grateful  to 
her  for  these  exhibitions  of  audacity,  which  he  at- 
tributed to  the  intensity  of  her  passion.  He  was 
mistaken. 

What  she  would  have  liked,  although  she  did 
not  admit  it  to  herself,  would  have  been  to  have 
Claire  see  them,  to  have  her  draw  aside  the  curtain 
at  her  window,  to  have  her  conceive  a  suspicion  of 
what  was  going  on.  She  needed  that  in  order  to 
be  perfectly  happy :  that  her  rival  should  be  un- 
happy. But  her  wish  was  ungratified,  Claire  Fro- 
mont noticed  nothing  and  lived,  as  Risler  did,  in 
imperturbable  serenity. 

Only  Sigismond,  the  old  cashier,  was  realU'  ill  at 
ease.  And  yet  he  was  not  thinking  of  Sidonie 
when,  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  he  paused  a 


148  Fromont  and  Risler, 

moment  in  his  work  and  gazed  fixedly  through  his 
grating  at  the  drenched  soil  of  the  little  garden. 
He  was  thinking  solely  of  his  master,  of  Monsieur 
"  Chorche,"  who  was  drawing  a  great  deal  of  money 
now  for  his  current  expenses  and  sowing  confusion 
in  all  his  books.  Every  time  it  was  some  new  ex- 
cuse. He  would  come  to  the  little  wicket  with  an 
unconcerned  air : 

"Have  you  a  little  money,  my  good  Planus? 
I  was  worsted  again  at  boiiillotte  last  night,  and 
I  don't  want  to  send  to  the  bank  for  such  a  trifle." 

Sigismond  Planus  would  open  his  cash-box  with 
an  air  of  regret  to  get  the  sum  requested,  and  he 
would  remember  with  terror  a  certain  day  when 
Monsieur  Georges,  then  only  twenty  years  old,  had 
confessed  to  his  uncle  that  he  owed  several  thousand 
francs  in  gambling  debts.  The  goodman  there- 
upon conceived  a  violent  antipathy  for  the  club 
an-d  contempt  for  all  its  micmbers.  A  rich  trades- 
man who  was  a  member  happened  to  come  to 
the  factory  one  day,  and  Sigismond  said  to  him 
with  brutal  frankness : 

"  The  devil  take  your  Cercle  du  Chateau  d'Eau  ! 
Monsieur  Georges  has  left  more  than  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  there  in  two  months." 

The  other  began  to  laugh. 

"Why,  you're  greatly  mistaken,  Pere  Planus  — 
it 's  at  least  three  months  since  we  have  seen  your 
master." 

The  cashier  did  not  pursue  the  conversation ; 
but  a  terrible  thought  took  up  its  abode  in  his 
mind,  and  he  turned  it  over  and  over  all  day  long. 


Plaims  ircjiiblcs  for  Jiis  CasJi-box.      149 

If  Georges  did  not  go  to  the  club,  where  did  he 
pass  his  evenings?  Where  did  he  spend  so  much 
money? 

There  was  evidently  a  woman  at  the  bottom 
of  the  affair. 

As  soon  as  that  idea  occurred  to  him,  Sigismond 
Planus  began  to  tremble  seriously  for  his  cash- 
box.  That  old  bear  from  the  canton  of  Berne,  a 
confirmed  bachelor,  had  a  terrible  dread  of  women 
in  general  and  Parisian  women  in  particular.  He 
deemed  it  his  duty  first  of  all,  in  order  to  set  his 
conscience  at  rest,  to  warn  Risler.  He  did  it  at 
first  in  rather  a  vague  v/ay. 

"  Monsieur  Chorche  is  spending  a  great  deal  of 
money,"  he  said  to  him  one  day. 

Risler  exhibited  no  surprise. 

"  What  do  you  expect  me  to  do,  my  old  Sigis- 
mond?    It's  his  right." 

And  the  honest  fellow  meant  what  he  said.  In 
his  eyes  Fromont  Jeune  was  the  absolute  master 
of  the  establishment.  It  would  have  been  a  fine 
thing,  and  no  mistake,  for  him,  an  ex-draughtsman, 
to  venture  to  make  any  comments.  The  cashier 
dared  say  no  more  imtil  the  day  when  a  messenger 
came  from  a  great  shawl  house  with  a  bill  for  six 
thousand  francs  for  a  cashmere  shawl. 

He  went  to  Georges  in  his  office, 

"  Shall  I  pay  it,  monsieur?  " 

Georges  Fromont  was  a  little  annoyed.  Sidonic 
had  forgotten  to  tell  hini  of  this  latest  purchase; 
she  used   no  ceremony  with   him  now. 

"  Pay  it,  pay   it,   Pere  Planus,"  he  said,  with  a 


150  Fromont  and  Risler. 

shade  of  embarrassment,  and  added :  "  Charge  it 
to  the  account  of  Fromont  Jeune.  It 's  a  com- 
mission entrusted  to  me  by  a  friend." 

That  evening,  as  Sigismond  was  hghting  his 
Httle  lamp,  he  saw  Risler  crossing  the  garden  and 
tapped  on  the  window  to  call  him. 

"  It's  a  woman,"  he  said  under  his  breath.  "I 
have  the  proof  of  it  now." 

As  he  uttered  the  awful  words,  "  a  woman,"  his 
voice  shook  with  fear  and  was  drowned  in  the 
great  uproar  of  the  factory.  The  sounds  of  the 
work  in  progress  had  a  sinister  meaning  to  the  un- 
happy cashier  at  that  moment.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  if  all  the  whirring  machinery,  the  great  chimney 
pouring  forth  its  clouds  of  smoke,  the  noise  of  the 
workmen  at  their  different  tasks  —  as  if  all  this  tumult 
and  animation  and  fatigue  were  for  the  benefit  of 
a  mysterious  little  being,  dressed  in  velvet  and 
bedecked  with  jewels. 

Risler  laughed  at  him  and  refused  to  believe 
him.  He  had  long  been  acquainted  \vith  his  com- 
patriot's mania  for  detecting  in  everything  the 
pernicious  influence  of  woman.  And  yet  Planus's 
words  sometimes  recurred  to  his  thoughts,  espe- 
cially in  the  evening,  when  Sidonie,  after  all  the 
commotion  attendant  upon  the  completion  of  her 
toilet,  went  away  to  the  theatre  with  Madame 
Dobson,  leaving  the  apartment  very  empty  as 
soon  as  her  long  train  had  swept  across  the  thresh- 
old. Candles  burning  in  front  of  the  mirrors, 
divers  little  toilet  articles  scattered  about  and 
thrown  aside,  tcld  of  extravagant  caprices  and  a 


Planus  trembles  for  /lis  Cash-box,     1 5 1 

reckless  expenditure  of  money.  Risler  saw  nothing 
of  all  that ;  but,  when  he  heard  Georges's  carriage 
rolling  through  the  court-yard,  he  had  a  feeling 
of  discomfort  at  the  thought  of  Madame  Fromont 
passing  her  evenings  entirely  alone.  Poor  woman  ! 
Suppose  what  Planus  said  were  true !  Suppose 
Georges  really  had  a  second  establishment !  Oh  ! 
it  would  be  frightful ! 

Thereupon,  instead  of  beginning  to  work,  he 
would  go  softly  downstairs  and  ask  if  Madame  were 
visible,  deeming  it  his  duty  to  keep  her  company. 

The  little  girl  was  always  in  bed,  but  the  little 
cap,  the  blue  shoes  were  still  lying  in  front  of  the 
fire.  Claire  was  either  reading  or  working,  with 
her  silent  mother  beside  her,  always  rubbing  or 
dusting  with  feverish  energy,  exhausting  herself 
by  blowing  on  the  case  of  her  watch,  and  nervously 
taking  the  same  thing  up  and  putting  it  down 
again  ten  times  in  succession,  with  the  obstinate 
persistence  of  manias  at  their  inception.  Nor  was 
honest  Risler  a  very  enlivening  companion ;  but 
that  did  not  prevent  the  young  woman  from  wel- 
coming him  kindly.  She  knew  all  that  was  said 
about  Sidonie  in  the  factory ;  and  although  she 
did  not  believe  half  of  it,  the  sight  of  the  poor 
man,  whom  his  wife  left  alone  so  often,  moved  her 
heart  to  pity.  Mutual  compassion  formed  the 
basis  of  that  placid  friendship,  and  nothing  could 
be  more  touching  than  those  two  deserted  ones, 
each  pitying  the  other  and  each  trying  to  divert 
the  other's  thoughts. 

Seated  at  the  small  brightly  lighted  table  in  the 


152  Fromont  and  Risler. 

centre  of  the  salon,  Risler  would  gradually  yield 
to  the  influence  of  the  warmth  of  the  fire  and  the 
harmony  of  his  surroundings.  He  found  there 
articles  of  furniture  with  which  he  had  been  fami- 
liar for  twenty  years,  the  portrait  of  his  former 
employer,  and  his  dear  Madame  "  Chorche,"  bend- 
ing over  some  little  piece  of  needlework  at  his  side, 
seemed  to  him  even  younger  and  more  lovable 
among  all  those  old  souvenirs.  From  time  to 
time  she  would  rise  to  go  and  look  at  the  child 
sleeping  in  the  adjoining  room,  whose  soft  breath- 
ing they  could  hear  in  the  intervals  of  silence. 
Without  fully  realizing  it,  Risler  felt  more  com- 
fortable and  warmer  there  than  in  his  own  apart- 
ment ;  for  on  certain  days  those  attractive  rooms, 
where  the  doors  were  forever  being  thrown  open 
for  hurried  exits  or  returns,  gave  him  the  impres- 
sion of  a  hall  without  doors  or  windows,  open  to 
the  four  winds.  His  rooms  were  a  camping 
ground ;  this  was  a  home.  A  care-taking  hand 
caused  order  and  refinement  to  reign  everywhere. 
The  chairs  seemed  to  be  talking  together  in  under- 
tones, the  fire  burned  with  a  delightful  noise,  and 
Mademoiselle  Fromont's  little  cap  retained  in  every 
bow  of  its  blue  ribbons  suggestions  of  sweet  smiles 
and  childish  glances. 

And  while  Claire  was  thinking  that  such  an 
excellent  man  deserved  a  better  companion  in  life, 
Risler,  watching  the  calm  and  lovely  face  turned 
toward  him,  the  intelligent,  kindly  eyes,  asked 
himself  who  the  hussy  could  be  for  whom  Georges 
Fromont  neglected  such  an  adorable  woman. 


The  Inventory,  i5_ 


VI. 

THE    INVENTORY. 

The  house  in  which  old  Planus  lived  at  INIont- 
rougc  adjoined  the  one  which  the  Chebes  had 
occupied  for  some  time.  There  was  the  same 
ground  floor  with  three  windows,  and  a  single  floor 
above,  the  same  garden  with  its  lattice-work  fence, 
the  same  borders  of  green  box.  There  the  old 
cashier  lived  with  his  sister.  He  took  the  first 
omnibus  that  left  the  office  in  the  morning,  re- 
turned at  dinner  time,  and  on  Sundays  remained  at 
home,  tending  his  flowers  and  his  hens.  The  old 
maid  was  his  housekeeper  and  did  all  the  cooking 
and  sewing.      A  happier  couple  never  lived. 

Celibates  both,  they  were  bound  together  by  an 
equal  hatred  of  marriage.  The  sister  abhorred  all 
men,  the  brother  looked  upon  all  women  with 
suspicion;  but  withal  they  adored  each  other, 
each  considering  the  other  an  exception  to  the 
general  perversity  of  the  sex. 

In  speaking  of  him,  she  always  said  :  "  Monsieur 
Planus,  my  brother!"  —  and  he,  with  the  same 
affectionate  solemnity,  interspersed  all  his  sentences 
with  "  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister !  "  To 
those  two  retiring  and  innocent  creatures,  Paris,  of 
which  they  knew  nothing,  although  they  visited  it 
every  day,  was  a  den  of  monsters  of  two  varieties. 


154  Fromont  and  Risler. 

bent  upon  doing  one  another  the  utmost  possible 
injury;  and  whenever,  amid  the  gossip  of  the 
quarter,  a  conjugal  drama  came  to  their  ears,  each 
of  them,  beset  by  his  or  her  own  idea,  blamed  a 
different  culprit. 

"  It 's  the  husband's  fault,"  would  be  the  verdict 
of  "  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister." 

"It's  the  wife's  fault,"  "Monsieur  Planus,  my 
brother,"   would   reply. 

"  Oh  !  the  men  —  " 

"  Oh  !  the  women  —  " 

That  was  their  one  never-failing  subject  of  dis- 
cussion in  those  rare  hours  of  idleness  which  old 
Sigismond  set  aside  in  his  busy  day,  which  was  as 
carefully  ruled  off  as  his  account  books.  For  some 
time  past  the  discussions  between  the  brother  and 
sister  had  been  marked  by  extraordinary  animation. 
They  were  deeply  interested  in  what  was  taking 
place  at  the  factory.  The  sister  was  full  of  pity 
for  Madame  Fromont  and  consideredher  husband's 
conduct  altogether  outrageous ;  as  for  Sigismond, 
he  could  find  no  words  bitter  enough  for  the  un- 
known trollop  w^ho  sent  bills  for  six  thousand 
franc  shawls  to  be  paid  from  his  cash-box.  In  his 
eyes  the  honor  and  fair  fame  of  the  old  house  he 
had  served  since  his  youth  were  at  stake. 

"  What  is  going  to  become  of  us?  "  he  repeated 
again  and  again.     "Oh!   these  women  —  " 

One  day  Mademoiselle  Planus  sat  by  the  fire 
with  her  knitting,  waiting  for  her  brother. 

The  table  had  been  laid  for  half  an  hour,  and 
the  old  maid  was  beginning  to  be  worried  by  such 


The  Invcntoiy.  155 

unheard-of  tardiness,  when  Sigismond  entered  with 
a  most  distressed  face,  and  without  a  word,  which 
was  contrary  to  all  his  habits. 

He  waited  until  the  door  was  shut  tight,  then 
said  in  a  low  voice,  in  response  to  his  sister's  dis- 
turbed and  questioning  expression : 

"  I  have  some  news.  I  know  who  the  woman 
is  who  is  doing  her  best  to  ruin  us." 

Lowering  his  voice  still  more,  after  glancing 
about  at  the  silent  walls  of  their  little  dining-room, 
he  uttered  a  name  so  unexpected  that  Mademoi- 
selle Planus  made  him  repeat  it. 

"  Is  it  possible?" 

"  It 's  the  truth." 

And,  despite  his  grief,  he  had  almost  a  trium- 
phant air. 

The  old  maid  could  not  believe  it.  Such  a 
refined,  polite  person,  who  had  received  her  with 
so  much  cordiality  !  —  How  could  anyone  imagine 
such  a  thing? 

"  I  have  proofs,"  said  Sigismond  Planus. 

Thereupon  he  told  her  how  Pere  Achillc  had 
met  Sidonie  and  Georges  one  night  at  eleven 
o'clock,  just  as  they  entered  a  small  furnished 
lodging-house  in  the  Montmartre  quarter;  and  he 
was  a  man  who  never  lied.  They  had  known  him 
for  a  long  while.  At  all  events,  others  had  met 
them.  Nothing  else  was  talked  about  at  the  fac- 
tory.    Risler  alone  suspected  nothing. 

"  But  it  is  your  duty  to  tell  him,"  declared  Made- 
moiselle Planus. 

The  cashier's  face  assumed  a  grave  expression. 


156  Fronton f  and  Risler. 

"  It's  a  very  delicate  matter.  In  the  first  place, 
who  knows  whether  he  would  believe  me?  There 
are  blind  men  so  blind  that  —  And  then,  by  inter- 
fering between  the  two  partners,  I  risk  the  loss  of 
my  place.  Oh  !  the  women  — the  women  !  When 
I  think  how  happy  Risler  might  have  been.  When 
I  sent  for  him  to  come  to  Paris  with  his  brother,  he 
had  n't  a  sou  ;  and  to-day  he  's  at  the  head  of  one 
of  the  first  houses  in  Paris.  Do  you  suppose  that 
he  could  be  content  with  that?  Oh!  yes,  of 
course.  Monsieur  must  marry.  As  if  anyone 
needed  to  marry !  And,  worse  yet,  he  marries  a 
Parisian  woman,  one  of  those  frowsy-haired  chits 
who  are  the  ruin  of  an  honest  house,  when  he  had 
right  at  his  hand  a  fine  girl,  of  almost  his  own  age, 
a  countrywoman,  used  to  work,  and  well  put  to- 
gether as  you  might  say  !  " 

"  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,"  to  whose 
physical  structure  he  alluded,  had  a  magnificent 
opportunity  to  exclaim:  "Oh!  the  men,  the 
men  !  "  but  she  was  silent.  It  was  a  very  delicate 
question,  and  perhaps,  if  Risler  had  chosen  in  time, 
he  might  have  been  the  only  one. 

Old  Sigismond  continued  : 

"  And  this  is  what  we  have  come  to.  For  three 
months  the  leading  wall-paper  factory  in  Paris  has 
been  tied  to  the  flounces  of  that  good-for-nothing. 
You  ought  to  see  how  the  money  flies.  All  day 
long  I  do  nothing  but  open  my  wicket  to  meet 
Monsieur  Georgcs's  calls.  He  always  applies  to 
me,  because  at  his  banker's  too  much  notice  would 
be  taken  of  it,  whereas  in  our  office  money  comes 


The  Inventory.  157 

and  goes,  comes  in  and  goes  out.  But  look  out 
for  the  inventory !  There  '11  be  some  pretty- 
figures  to  show  at  the  end  of  the  year.  The  worst 
part  of  the  whole  business  is  that  Rislcr  won't  listen 
to  anything.  I  have  warned  him  several  times : 
'  Look  out,  Monsieur  Georges  is  making  a  fool  of 
himself  for  that  woman.'  He  either  turns  away 
with  a  shrug,  or  else  he  tells  me  that  it 's  none  of 
his  business  and  that  Fromont  Jeune  is  the  master. 
Upon  my  word,  one  would  almost  think — -one 
would  almost  think  —  " 

The  cashier  did  not  finish  his  sentence ;  but  his 
silence  was  pregnant  with  unspoken  thoughts. 

The  old  maid  was  appalled ;  but,  like  most 
women  under  such  circumstances,  instead  of  seek- 
ing a  remedy  for  the  evil,  she  wandered  off  into 
a  maze  of  regrets,  conjectures  and  retrospective 
lamentations.  What  a  misfortune  that  they  had 
not  known  it  sooner  when  they  had  the  Chebes  for 
neighbors.  Madame  Chebe  was  such  an  honor- 
able woman.  They  might  have  put  the  matter 
before  her  so  that  she  would  keep  an  eye  on  Si- 
donic  and  talk  seriously  to  her. 

"  Indeed,  that's  a  good  idea,"  Sigismond  inter- 
rupted. "You  must  go  to  Rue  du  Mail  and  tell 
her  parents.  I  thought  at  first  of  writing  to  little 
Frantz.  He  always  had  a  great  deal  of  influence 
over  his  brother,  and  he  's  the  only  person  on 
earth  who  could  say  certain  things  to  him.  But 
Frantz  is  so  far  away.  And  then  it  would  be  such 
a  terrible  thing  to  do.  I  can't  help  pitying  that 
unlucky  Risler,  though.     No  !  the  best  way  is  to 


158  Fromont  and  Risler. 

tell  Madame  Chebe,     Will  you  undertake  to  do  it, 
sister?  " 

It  was  a  dangerous  commission.  Mademoiselle 
Planus  made  some  objections,  but  she  had  never 
been  able  to  resist  her  brother's  wishes,  and  the 
desire  to  be  of  service  to  their  old  friend  Risler 
assisted  materially  in  persuading  her. 

Thanks  to  his  son-in-law's  kindness.  Monsieur 
Chebe  had  succeeded  in  gratifying  his  latest  whim. 
For  three  months  past  he  had  been  living  at  his 
famous  warehouse  on  Rue  du  Mail,  and  a  great 
sensation  was  created  in  the  quarter  by  that  shop 
without  merchandise,  the  shutters  of  which  were 
taken  down  in  the  morning  and  put  up  again  at 
night,  as  in  wholesale  houses.  Shelves  had  been 
placed  all  around  the  walls,  there  was  a  new 
counter,  a  safe,  a  huge  pair  of  scales.  In  a  word, 
Monsieur  Chebe  possessed  all  the  requisites  of  a 
business  of  some  sort,  but  did  not  know  as  yet  just 
what  business  he  would  choose. 

He  pondered  the  subject  all  day  as  he  walked 
to  and  fro  across  the  shop,  encumbered  with 
several  large  pieces  of  bedroom  furniture  which 
they  had  been  unable  to  get  into  the  back  shop ; 
he  pondered  it  too,  as  he  stood  on  his  doorstep, 
with  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  feasted  his  eyes 
delightedly  on  the  hurly-burly  of  Parisian  com- 
merce. The  clerks  who  passed  with  their  pack- 
ages of  samples  under  their  arms,  the  vans  of  the 
express  companies,  the  omnibuses,  the  porters, 
the  wheelbarrows,  the  great  bales  of  merchandise 


The  Inventory.  159 

at  the  neighboring  doors,  the  packages  of  rich 
stuffs  and  trimmings  which  dragged  in  the  niiul  of 
the  gutter  before  being  consigned  to  those  under- 
ground regions,  those  dark  holes  stuffed  with  treas- 
ures, where  the  fortune  of  business  houses  Hes  in 
germ  —  all  these  things  delighted  Monsieur  Chebe. 

He  amused  himself  guessing  at  the  contents  of 
the  bales  and  was  first  at  the  fray  when  some 
passer-by  received  a  heavy  package  upon  his  feet, 
or  the  horses  attached  to  a  dray,  spirited  and 
restive,  made  the  long  vehicle  standing  across 
the  street  an  obstacle  to  circulation.  He  had, 
moreover,  the  thousand  and  one  distractions  of 
the  petty  tradesman  without  customers,  the  heavy 
showers,  the  accidents,  the  thefts,  the  disputes. 

At  the  end  of  the  day  Monsieur  Chebe,  dazed, 
bewildered,  worn  out  by  the  labor  of  other  people, 
would  stretch  him^self  out  in  his  easy-chair  and  say 
to  his  wife,  as  he  wiped  his  forehead : 

"  That 's  the  kind  of  life  I  need  —  an  active  life." 

Madame  Chebe  would  smile  softly  without  re- 
plying. Accustomed  as  she  was  to  all  her  hus- 
band's whims,  she  had  made  herself  as  comfortable 
as  possible  in  a  back  shop  with  an  outlook  upon  a 
dark  yard,  consoled  herself  with  reflections  on 
the  former  prosperity  of  her  parents  and  her  daugh- 
ter's wealth,  and,  being  always  neatly  dressed,  had 
succeeded  already  in  acquiring  the  respect  of  neigh- 
bors and  tradesmen. 

She  asked  nothing  more  than  not  to  be  con- 
founded with  the  wives  of  working  men,  often  less 
poor  than  herself,  and  to  be  allowed  to  retain,  in 


i6o  Fr onion t  and  Rislcr, 

spite  of  everything,  a  petty  bourgeois  superiority. 
That  was  her  constant  thought;  and  so  the  back 
room  in  which  she  hved,  and  where  it  was  dark  at 
three  in  the  afternoon,  was  resplendent  with  order 
and  cleanHness.  During  the  day  the  bed  became 
a  couch,  an  old  shawl  did  duty  as  a  table-cloth, 
the  fire-place,  hidden  by  a  screen,  served  as  a  pan- 
try, and  the  meals  were  cooked  in  modest  retire- 
ment on  a  stove  no  larger  than  a  foot-warmer.  A 
tranquil  life  —  that  was  the  dream  of  the  poor 
woman,  who  was  constantly  tormented  by  the 
tergiversations  of  an  uncongenial  companion. 

In  the  early  days  of  his  tenancy  Monsieur 
Chebe  had  caused  these  words  to  be  inscribed  in 
letters  a  foot  long  on  the  fresh  paint  of  his  shop- 
front  : 

COMMISSION  —  EXPORTATION 

No  specifications.  His  neighbors  sold  tulle,  broad- 
cloth, linen ;  he  was  inclined  to  sell  everything, 
but  could  not  make  up  his  mind  just  what.  With 
what  arguments  did  his  indecision  lead  him  to 
favor  Madame  Chebe  as  they  sat  together  in  the 
evening  ! 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  linen ;  but  when 
you  come  to  broadcloth,  I  can  take  care  of  that. 
Only,  if  I  go  into  broadcloths  I  must  have  a  man 
to  travel ;  for  the  best  kinds  come  from  Sedan 
and  Elbeuf.  I  say  nothing  about  calicoes  ;  sum- 
mer's  the  time  for  them.  As  for  tulle,  that 's  out 
of  the  question ;   the  season  is  too  far  advanced." 

He  generally  brought  his  discourse  to  a  close 
with  the  words : 


The  luvcuiory.  i6i 

"The  night  will  bring  counsel  —  let's  go  to 
bed." 

And  to  bed  he  would  go,  to  his  wife's  great 
relief. 

After  three  or  four  months  of  that  existence, 
Monsieur  Chebe  began  to  be  tired  of  it.  The 
pains  in  the  head,  the  dizzy  fits  gradually  returned. 
The  quarter  was  noisy  and  unhealthy.  Besides, 
business  was  at  a  standstill.  There  was  nothing 
doing  in  any  line,  broadcloths,  tissues  or  anything 
else. 

It  was  just  at  the  period  of  that  new  crisis  that 
"  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,"  called  to  speak 
about  Sidonie. 

The  old  maid  had  said  to  herself  on  the  way : 
"  I  must  break  it  gently."  But,  like  all  shy  people, 
she  relieved  herself  of  her  burden  in  the  first  words 
she  spoke  after  entering  the  house. 

It  was  a  stunning  blow.  When  she  heard  the 
accusation  made  against  her  daughter,  Madame 
Chebe  rose  in  indignation.  No  one  could  ever 
make  her  believe  such  a  thing.  Her  poor  Sidonie 
was  the  victim  of  an  infamous  slander. 

Monsieur  Chebe,  for  his  part,  adopted  a  very 
lofty  tone,  with  significant  phrases  and  motions  of 
the  head,  taking  everything  to  himself  as  his  cus- 
tom was.  How  could  any  one  suppose  that  Ids 
child,  a  Chebe,  the  daughter  of  an  honorable  busi- 
ness man  known  for  thirty  years  on  the  street,  was 
capable  of —      Nonsense  ! 

Mademoiselle  Planus  insisted.  It  was  a  painful 
thing  to  her  to  be  considered  a  gossip,  a  hawker 
II 


1 62  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

of  unsavory  stories.  But  they  had  incontestable 
proofs.     It  was  no  longer  a  secret  to  anybody. 

"And  even  suppose  it  was  true,"  cried  Monsieur 
Chebe,  furious  at  her  persistence.  "  Is  it  for  us  to 
worry  about  it?  Our  daughter  is  married.  She 
lives  a  long  way  from  her  parents.  It 's  for  her 
husband,  who  is  much  older  than  she,  to  advise 
and  guide  her.  Does  he  so  much  as  think  of  do- 
ing it?" 

Upon  that  the  little  man  began  to  inveigh 
against  his  son-in-law,  that  sluggish-blooded  Swiss, 
who  passed  his  life  in  his  office  devising  machines, 
refused  to  accompany  his  wife  into  society,  and 
preferred  his  old  bachelor  habits,  his  pipe  and 
his  brewery  to  everything  else. 

You  should  have  seen  the  air  of  aristocratic 
disdain  with  which  Monsieur  Chebe  pronounced 
the  words,  "  the  brewery !  "  And  yet  almost  every 
evening  he  went  there  to  meet  Risler,  and  over- 
whelmed him  with  reproaches  if  he  once  failed 
to  appear  at  the  rendezvous. 

Behind  all  this  verbiage  the  merchant  of  Rue  du 
Mail  — "  commission,  exportation  "  —  had  a  very 
definite  idea.  He  wished  to  give  up  his  shop,  to 
retire  from  business,  and  for  some  time  he  had 
been  thinking  of  going  to  see  Sidonie,  in  order  to 
interest  her  in  his  new  schemes.  That  was  not  the 
time,  therefore,  to  make  disagreeable  scenes,  to 
prate  about  paternal  authority  and  conjugal  honor. 
As  for  Madame  Chebe,  being  somewhat  less  con- 
fident than  before  of  her  daughter's  infallibility, 
she    took    refuge    in    the   most   profound    silence. 


The  Inventory.  163 

The  poor  woman  wished  that  she  were  deaf  and 
blind,  —  that  she  had  never  known  Mademoiselle 
Planus. 

Like  all  persons  who  have  been  very  unhappy, 
she  loved  a  benumbed  existence  with  a  semblance 
of  tranquillity,  and  ignorance  seemed  to  her  prefer- 
able to  everything.  As  if  life  were  not  sad  enough, 
great  God !  And  then,  after  all,  Sidonie  had 
always  been  a  good  girl ;  why  should  she  not  be 
a  good  woman? 

Night  was  falling. 

Monsieur  Chebe  rose  gravely  to  close  the  shut- 
ters of  the  shop,  and  light  a  gas-jet  which  illumined 
the  bare  walls,  the  empty  polished  shelves,  and  the 
whole  extraordinary  place,  which  reminded  one 
strongly  of  the  day  following  a  failure.  With  his 
lips  closed  disdainfully,  in  his  determination  to 
remain  silent,  he  seemed  to  say  to  the  old  maid  : 
"  Night  has  come  —  it 's  time  for  you  to  go  home." 
And  all  the  while  they  could  hear  Madame  Chebe 
sobbing  in  the  back  shop,  as  she  went  to  and  fro 
preparing  supper. 

Mademoiselle  Planus  got  no  further  satisfaction 
from  her  visit. 

"Well?"  queried  old  Sigismond,  who  was  im- 
patiently awaiting  her  return. 

"  They  would  n't  believe  me,  and  politely  showed 
me  the  door." 

She  had  tears  in  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  her 
humiliation. 

The  old  man's  face  flushed,  and  he  said  in  a 
grave  voice,  taking  his  sister's  hand: 


164  Froinont  and  Rislcr, 

"  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,  I  ask  your 
pardon  for  having  made  you  take  this  step  ;  but 
the  honor  of  the  house  of  Fromont  was  at 
stake." 

From  that  moment  Sigismond  became  more  and 
more  depressed.  His  cash-box  no  longer  seemed 
to  him  safe  or  secure.  Even  when  Fromont  Jeune 
did  not  ask  him  for  money,  he  was  afraid,  and  he 
summed  up  all  his  apprehensions  in  four  words 
which  came  constantly  to  his  lips  when  talking 
with   his  sister: 

*'/  /laf  no  gonfidcnce,''  he  would  say,  in  his 
hoarse  Swiss  patois. 

Thinking  always  of  his  cash-box,  he  dreamed 
sometimes  that  it  had  broken  apart  at  all  the 
joints,  and  insisted  on  remaining  open,  no  matter 
how  much  he  turned  the  key,  or  else  that  a  high 
wind  scattered  all  the  papers,  notes,  checks,  and 
bills,  and  that  he  ran  after  them  all  over  the 
factory,  tiring  himself  out  in  the  attempt  to  pick 
them  up. 

In  the  daytime,  as  he  sat  behind  his  grating  in 
the  silence  of  his  office,  he  imagined  that  a  little 
white  mouse  had  eaten  its  way  through  the  bottom 
of  the  box  and  was  gnawing  and  destroying  all  its 
contents,  growing  fatter  and  prettier  as  the  work 
of  destruction  went  on. 

So  that,  when  Sidonie  appeared  on  the  stoop 
about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  in  her  pretty 
cocotte's  plumage,  old  Sigismond  shuddered  with 
rage.  In  his.  eyes  it  was  the  ruin  of  the  house  that 
stood  there,  ruin  in  a  magnificent  costume,  with 


The  Inventory.  165 

her  little  coupe  at  the  door,  and  the  placid  bear- 
ing of  a  happy  coquette. 

Madame  Risler  had  no  suspicion  that,  at  that 
window  on  the  ground  floor,  there  was  an  untir- 
ing foe  who  watched  her  slightest  movements, 
the  most  trivial  details  of  her  life,  the  going 
and  coming  of  her  music-teacher,  the  arrival  of 
the  fashionable  dressmaker  in  the  morning,  all 
the  boxes  that  were  brought  to  the  house,  and  the 
laced  cap  of  the  employes  of  the  Magasiii  dji 
LoHvre,  whose  heavy  wagon  stopped  at  the  gate 
with  a  jingling  of  bells,  like  a  diligence  drawn  by 
stout  horses,  which  were  dragging  the  house  of 
Fromont  to  bankruptcy  at  breakneck  speed. 

Sigismond  counted  the  packages,  weighed  them 
with  his  eye  as  they  passed,  and  gazed  inquisitively 
into  Risler's  apartments  through  the  open  windows. 
The  carpets  that  were  shaken  with  a  great  noise, 
the  jardinieres  that  were  brought  into  the  sunlight 
filled  with  fragile,  unseasonable  flowers,  rare  and 
expensive,  the  gorgeous  hangings — -none  of  these 
things  escaped  his  notice. 

The  new  acquisitions  of  the  household  stared 
him  in  the  face,  reminding  him  of  some  request 
for  a  large  amount. 

I5ut  the  one  thing  that  he  studied  more  carefully 
than  all  else  was  Risler's  countenance. 

In  his  view  that  woman  was  in  a  fair  way  to 
change  his  friend,  the  best,  the  most  upright  of 
men,  into  a  shameless  villain.  There  was  no  possi- 
bility of  doubt  that  Risler  knew  of  his  dishonor, 
and  submitted  to  it.     lie  was  paid  to  keep  quiet. 


1 66  Fro7nont  ajid  Risler. 

Certainly  there  was  something  monstrous  in 
such  a  supposition.  But  it  is  the  tendency  of  in- 
nocent natures,  when  they  are  made  acquainted 
with  evil  for^  the  first  time,  to  go  at  once  too  far, 
beyond  reason.  When  he  was  once  convinced  of 
the  treachery  of  Georges  and  Sidonie,  Risler's 
degradation  seemed  to  the  cashier  less  impossible 
of  comprehension.  On  what  other  theory  could 
his  indifference  in  the  face  of  his  partner's  heavy 
expenditures  be  explained? 

The  excellent  Sigismond  in  his  narrow,  stereo- 
typed honesty,  could  not  understand  the  delicacy 
of  Risler's  heart.  At  the  same  time  the  method- 
ical book-keeper's  habit  of  thought  and  his  clear- 
sightedness in  business  were  a  thousand  leagues 
from  that  absent-minded,  flighty  character,  half- 
artist,  half-inventor.  He  judged  him  by  himself, 
having  no  conception  of  the  condition  of  a  man 
with  the  disease  of  invention,  absorbed  by  a  fixed 
idea.  Such  men  are  somnambulists.  They  look 
but  do  not  see,  their  eyes  being  turned  within. 

It  was  Sigismond's  belief  that  Risler  did  see. 

That  belief  made  the  old  cashier  very  unhappy. 
He  began  by  staring  at  his  friend  whenever  he  en- 
tered the  counting-room  ;  then,  discouraged  by  the 
immovable  indifference,  which  he  believed  to  be 
wilful  and  premeditated,  fastened  upon  his  face  like 
a  mask,  he  adopted  the  plan  of  turning  away  and 
fumbling  among  his  papers  to  avoid  those  false 
glances,  and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  garden 
paths  or  the  interlaced  wires  of  the  grating  when 
he  spoke    to  him.     Even  his  words  were  all  con- 


The  Inventory.  167 

fused,  distorted  like  his  glances.  No  one  could 
say  positively  to  whom  he  was  talking. 

No  more  friendly  smiles,  no  more  reminiscences 
as  they  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  cash-book 
together : 

"  This  was  the  year  you  came  to  the  factory. 
Your  first  increase  of  pay.  Do  you  remember  ? 
We  dined  at  Douix's  that  day.  And  then  the 
Cafe  des  Aveugles  in  the  evening,  eh  ?  What  a 
debauch !  " 

At  last  Risler  noticed  the  strange  coolness  that 
had  sprung  up  between  Sigismond  and  himself. 
He  mentioned  it  to  his  wife. 

For  some  time  past  she  had  felt  that  antipathy 
prowling  about  her.  Sometimes,  as  she  crossed 
the  courtyard,  she  was  oppressed,  as  it  were,  by 
malevolent  glances  which  caused  her  to  turn 
nervously  toward  the  old  cashier's  corner.  This 
estrangement  between  the  friends  alarmed  her  and 
she  very  quickly  determined  to  put  her  husband 
on  his  guard  against  Planus'  unpleasant  remarks. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  he 's  jealous  of  you,  of  your 
position?  A  man  who  was  once  his  equal,  now 
his  superior,  —  he  can't  stand  that.  But  as  if  there 
was  any  need  of  bothering  one's  head  about  all 
these  spiteful  creatures.  Why,  I  am  surrounded 
by  them  here." 

Risler  looked  at  her  with  wide-open  eyes :  — • 
"You?" 

"  Why,  yes,  it 's  easy  enough  to  see  all  these 
people  detest  me.  They  bear  little  Chebe  a  grudge 
because   she    has    become    Madame    Risler   Ainc, 


1 68  Froviont  and  Risler, 

God  knows  all  the  outrageous  things  that  are  said 
about  me.  And  your  cashier  don't  keep  his  tongue 
in  his  pocket,  I  promise  you.  What  a  spiteful 
fellow  he  is  !  " 

These  few  words  had  their  effect.  Risler,  indig- 
nant but  too  proud  to  complain,  met  coldness  with 
coldness.  Those  two  honest  men,  each  intensely 
distrustful  of  the  other,  could  no  longer  meet  with- 
out a  painful  sensation,  so  that,  after  a  while,  Risler 
ceased  to  go  to  the  counting-room  at  all.  It  was 
not  difficult  for  him,  as  Fromont  Jeune  had  charge 
of  all  financial  matters.  His  month's  allowance 
was  carried  to  him  on  the  thirtieth  of  each  month. 
The  arrangement  afforded  Sidonie  and  Georges 
additional  facilities,  and  opportunity  for  all  sorts 
of  underhand  dealing. 

She  thereupon  turned  her  attention  to  the  com- 
pletion of  her  programme  of  a  life  of  luxury.  She 
lacked  a  country  house.  In  her  heart  she  detested 
the  trees,  the  fields,  the  country  roads  that  cover 
you  with  dust :  "  The  most  dismal  things  on  earth," 
she  used  to  say.  But  Claire  Fromont  passed  the 
summer  at  Savigny.  As  soon  as  the  first  fine  days 
arrived  the  trunks  were  packed  and  the  curtains 
taken  down  on  the  floor  below ;  and  a  great  furni- 
ture van,  with  the  little  girl's  blue  bassinet  rocking 
on  top,  set  off  for  the  grandfather's  chateau.  Then, 
one  morning,  the  mother,  grandmother,  child  and 
nurse,  a  medley  of  white  gowns  and  light  veils, 
would  drive  away  behind  two  fast  horses  toward 
the  sunny  lawns  and  the  pleasant  shade  of  the 
avenues. 


The  Inventory.  169 

At  that  season  Paris  was  ugly,  depopulated  ;  and 
although  Sidonie  loved  it,  even  in  the  summer 
which  heats  it  like  a  furnace,  it  troubled  her  to 
think  that  all  the  fashion  and  wealth  of  Paris  were 
driving  by  the  seashore  under  their  light  umbrellas, 
and  would  make  their  outing  an  excuse  for  a  thou- 
sand new  inventions,  for  original  styles  of  the  most 
risque  sort,  which  would  permit  one  to  show  that 
one  has  a  pretty  leg  and  long,  curly  chestnut  hair 
of  one's  own. 

The  seashore  bathing  resorts  !  She  could  not 
think  of  them ;   Risler  could  not  leave  Paris. 

How  about  buying  a  country  house?  They  had 
not  the  means. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  the  lover,  who  would  have 
asked  nothing  better  than  to  gratify  this  latest 
whim ;  but  a  country  house  cannot  be  concealed 
like  a  bracelet  or  a  shawl.  The  husband  must 
be  induced  to  accept  it.  That  was  not  an  easy 
matter ;  however,  they  might  venture  to  try  it  with 
Risler. 

To  pave  the  way,  she  talked  to  him  incessantly 
about  a  little  nook  in  the  countr)',  not  too  expen- 
sive, very  near  Paris.  Risler  listened  with  a  smile. 
He  thought  of  the  high  grass,  of  the  orchard  filled 
with  fine  fruit  trees,  being  already  tormented  by 
the  longing  to  possess  which  comes  with  wealth ; 
but  as  he  was  prudent,  he  said  : 

"We  will  see,  we  will  see.  Let's  wait  till  the 
end  of  the  year." 

The  end  of  the  year,  that  is  to  say  the  balance- 
sheet 


170  Fromont  and  Risler, 

The  balance-sheet. 

That  is  the  magic  word.  All  through  the  year 
we  go  on  and  on  in  the  eddying  whirl  of  business. 
Money  comes  and  goes,  circulates,  attracts  other 
money,  vanishes ;  and  the  fortune  of  the  firm,  like 
a  slippery,  gleaming  snake,  always  in  motion,  ex- 
pands, contracts,  diminishes  or  increases,  and  it 
is  impossible  to  know  our  condition  until  there 
comes  a  moment  of  rest.  Not  until  the  in- 
ventory shall  we  know  the  truth,  and  whether 
the  year,  which  seems  to  have  been  a  prosperous 
one,  has  really  been  so. 

The  account  of  stock  is  usually  taken  late  in 
December,  between  Christmas  and  New  Year's 
Day.  As  it  requires  much  extra  labor  to  prepare 
it,  everybody  works  far  into  the  night.  The  whole 
establishment  is  on  foot.  The  lamps  remain  lighted 
in  the  offices  long  after  the  doors  are  closed,  and 
seem  to  share  in  the  festal  atmosphere  peculiar  to 
that  last  week  of  the  year,  when  so  many  windows 
are  illuminated  for  family  gatherings.  Everyone, 
even  to  the  least  important  employe  of  the  firm,  is 
interested  in  the  results  of  the  inventory.  The 
increases  of  salary,  the  New  Year's  presents  depend 
upon  those  blessed  figures.  And  so,  while  the 
vast  interests  of  a  wealthy  house  are  trembling  in 
the  balance,  the  wives  and  children  and  aged  par- 
ents of  the  clerks,  in  their  fifth-floor  tenements  or 
poor  apartments  in  the  suburbs,  talk  of  nothing 
but  the  inventory,  the  results  of  which  will 
make  themselves  felt  either  by  a  greatly  increased 
need  of  economy,  or  by  some  purchase,  long  post- 


The  Inventory.  i  7 1 

poned,  which  the  New  Year's  gift  will  make  possible 
at  last. 

On  the  premises  of  Fromont  Jcune  and  Risler 
Ainc  Sigismond  Planus  is  the  god  of  the  establish- 
ment at  that  season,  and  his  little  office  a  sanctuary 
where  all  the  clerks  perform  their  devotions.  In 
the  silence  of  the  sleeping  factory,  the  heavy  pages 
of  the  great  books  rustle  as  they  are  turned,  and 
names  called  aloud  cause  search  to  be  made  in 
other  books.  Fens  scratch.  The  old  cashier,  sur- 
rounded by  his  lieutenants,  has  a  business-like, 
awe-inspiring  air.  From  time  to  time  Fromont 
Jeune,  on  the  point  of  going  out  in  his  carriage, 
looks  in  for  a  moment,  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
neatly  gloved  and  ready  for  the  street.  He  walks 
slowly,  on  tiptoe,  puts  his  face  to  the  grating: 

"  Well !  — are  you  getting  on  all  right?  " 

Sigismond  gives  a  grunt,  and  the  young  master 
takes  his  leave,  afraid  to  ask  any  further  questions. 
He  knows  from  the  cashier's  expression  that  the 
showing  will  be  a  bad  one. 

In  truth,  since  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  when 
there  was  fighting  in  the  very  courtyard  of  the 
factory,  so  pitiable  an  inventory  had  never  been 
seen  in  the  Fromont  establishment.  Receipts  and 
expenditures  balanced  each  other.  The  general 
expense  account  had  eaten  up  everything,  and, 
furthermore,  P'romont  Jeune  was  indebted  to  the 
firm  in  a  large  sum.  You  should  have  seen  old 
Planus's  air  of  consternation  when,  on  the  31st  of 
December,  he  went  up  to  Georges's  office  to  make 
report  of  his  labors. 


172  Fromont  and  Rislcr, 

Georges  took  a  very  cheerful  view  of  the  matter. 
Everything  would  go  better  next  year.  And  to 
restore  the  cashier's  good  humor,  he  gave  him  an 
extraordinary  bonus  of  a  thousand  francs,  instead 
of  the  five  hundred  his  uncle  used  always  to  give. 
Everybody  felt  the  effects  of  that  generous  impulse, 
and,  in  the  universal  satisfaction,  the  deplorable 
results  of  the  yearly  accounting  were  very  soon 
forgotten.  As  for  Risler,  Georges  chose  to  take  it 
upon  himself  to  inform  him  as  to  the  situation. 

When  he  entered  his  partner's  little  closet,  which 
was  lighted  from  above  by  a  window  in  the  ceiling, 
so  that  the  light  fell  directly  upon  the  subject  of 
the  inventor's  meditations,  Fromont  hesitated  a 
moment,  filled  with  shame  and  remorse  for  what 
he  was  about  to  do. 

The  other,  when  he  heard  the  door,  turned  joy- 
fully toward  his  partner. 

"  Chorche,  Chorche,  my  dear  fellow,  —  I  have 
got  it,  our  press.  There  are  still  a  few  little  things 
to  think  out.  But  no  matter !  I  am  sure  now 
of  my  invention,  —  you  will  see,  —  you  will  see  ! 
Ah  !  the  Prochassons  can  dabble  all  they  choose. 
With  the  Rider  Press  we  will  crush  all  rivalry." 

"  Bravo,  my  comrade,"  replied  Fromont  Jcune. 
**  So  much  for  the  future;  but  you  don't  seem  to 
think  about  the  present.  What  about  this  inven- 
tory? " 

"  Ah,  yes !  to  be  sure.  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  it.     It  isn't  very  satisfactory,  is  it?" 

He  said  that  because  of  the  somewhat  disturbed 
and  embarrassed  expression  of  Georges's  face. 


The  Inventory.  173 

"  Why,  yes,  on  the  contrary,  it 's  very  satisfactory 
indeed,"  was  the  reply.  "  We  have  every  reason 
to  be  satisfied,  especially  as  it's  our  first  year. 
We  have  forty  thousand  francs  each  for  our  share 
of  the  profits;  and  as  I  thought  you  might  need 
a  little  money  to  give  your  wife  a  New  Year's 
present  —  " 

Ashamed  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the  honest  man 
whose  confidence  he  was  betraying,  Fromont 
Jeune  placed  a  bundle  of  checks  and  notes  on  the 
table. 

Risler  was  deeply  moved  for  a  moment.  So 
much  money  at  one  time  for  him !  His  mind 
dwelt  upon  the  generosity  of  these  Fromonts,  who 
had  made  him  what  he  was ;  then  he  thought  of 
his  little  Sidonie,  of  the  longing  which  she  had  so 
often  expressed  and  which  he  would  now  be  able 
to  gratify. 

With  tears  in  his  eyes  and  a  happy  smile  on  his 
lips,  he  held  out  both  hands  to  his  partner. 

"  I  am  very  happy,  —  I  am  very  happy." 

That  was  his  favorite  phrase  on  great  occasions. 
Then  he  pointed  to  the  bundles  of  bank-notes 
spread  out  before  him  in  the  narrow  bands  which 
are  used  to  confine  those  fugitive  documents, 
always  ready  to  fly  away. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  is?  "  he  said  to  Georges, 
with  an  air  of  triumph.  "That  is  Sidonie's  house 
in  the  country." 

Parblcu  ! 


174  Fromojit  and  Risler. 


VII. 

A   LETTER. 

"  To  M.  Frantz  Risler, 

'■'■Engineer  of  the  Compagjiie  Fran^aise, 
'■'■  Isniailia,  Egypt. 

"  Frantz,  my  boy,  it  is  old  Sigismond  who  is  writ- 
ing to  you.  If  I  knew  better  how  to  put  my  ideas 
on  paper,  I  should  have  a  very  long  story  to  tell 
you.  But  this  infernal  French  is  too  hard,  and 
Sigismond  Planus  is  good  for  nothing  away  from 
his  figures.  So  I  will  tell  you  at  once  what  the 
matter  is. 

"  Things  are  taking  place  in  your  brother's  house 
that  are  not  as  they  should  be.  That  woman  is 
false  to  him  with  his  partner.  She  has  made  her 
husband  a  laughing-stock,  and  if  this  goes  on  she 
will  cause  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  knave. 
Look  you,  my  little  Frantz,  you  must  come  home 
at  once.  You  're  the  only  one  who  can  speak  to 
Risler  and  open  his  eyes  about  that  little  Sidonie. 
He  would  n't  believe  any  of  us.  Ask  leave  of 
absence  at  once,  and  come. 

"  I  know  that  you  have  your  bread  to  earn  out 
there,  and  your  future  to  assure ;  but  a  man  of 
honor  should  think  more  of  the  name  his  parents 


A  Letter.  175 

gave  him  than  of  anything  else.  And  I  tell  you 
that  if  you  don't  come  at  once,  a  time  will  come 
when  your  name  of  Risler  will  be  so  loaded  down 
with  shame  that  you  won't  dare  to  bear  it. 

"SiGisMOND  Planus. 

"  Cashier." 


176  Fromont  and  Risler. 


BOOK   THIRD. 


THE   JUDGE. 

Those  persons  who  live  always  indoors,  confined 
by  work  or  infirmity  to  their  chair  by  the  window, 
take  a  deep  interest  in  the  people  who  pass,  just  as 
they  make  for  themselves  a  horizon  of  the  neigh- 
boring walls,  roofs  and  windows. 

Nailed  to  their  place,  they  live  in  the  life  of  the 
streets,  and  the  busy  men  and  women  who  pass 
within  their  range  of  vision,  sometimes  every  day 
at  the  same  hour,  do  not  suspect  that  they  serve 
as  the  mainspring  of  other  lives,  that  loving  eyes 
watch  for  their  coming  and  miss  them  if  they  hap- 
pen to  go  to  their  destination  by  another  road. 

The  Delobelles,  left  to  themselves  all  day,  in- 
dulged in  this  sort  of  silent  observation.  Their 
window  was  narrow,  and  the  mother,  whose  eyes 
were  beginning  to  give  out  as  the  result  of  hard 
usage,  sat  near  the  light  against  the  drawn  muslin 
curtain  ;  her  daughter's  large  arm-chair  was  at  her 
side  but  a  little  farther  away.  She  announced  the 
approach  of  their  daily  passers-by.  It  was  a  diver- 
sion, a  subject  of  conversation  ;  and  the  long  hours 
of  toil  seemed  shorter,  marked  oft'  by  the  regular 


The  Judge.  177 

appearances  of  people  who  were  as  busy  as  the}'. 
There  were  two  little  sisters,  a  gentleman  in  a  gray 
overcoat,  a  child  who  was  taken  to  school  and 
taken  home  again,  and  an  old  government  clerk 
with  a  wooden  leg,  whose  step  on  the  sidewalk  had 
a  sinister  sound. 

They  hardly  ever  saw  him  ;  he  passed  after  dark, 
but  they  heard  him  and  the  sound  always  struck 
the  little  cripple's  ears  like  a  harsh  echo  of  her 
own  most  melancholy  thoughts.  All  these  street 
friends  unconsciously  occupied  a  large  place  in 
the  lives  of  the  two  women.  If  it  rained,  they 
would  say : 

"  They  will  get  wet.  —  I  wonder  if  the  child  got 
home  before  the  shower."  And  when  the  season 
changed,  when  the  March  sun  inundated  the  side- 
walks or  the  December  snow  covered  them  with 
its  white  mantle  and  its  patches  of  black  slush,  the 
appearance  of  a  new  garment  on  one  of  their 
friends  caused  the  two  recluses  to  say  to  them- 
selves:     "It  is  summer,"  or  "Winter  has  come." 

Now,  on  a  certain  evening  in  Ma)%  one  of  those 
soft  luminous  evenings  when  life  flows  forth  from 
the  houses  into  the  street  through  the  open  win- 
dows, Dcsirce  and  her  mother  were  actively  at 
work  with  needles  and  fingers  exhausting  the  day- 
light, to  its  last  ray,  before  lighting  the  lamp. 
They  could  hear  the  shouts  of  children  playing  in 
the  yards,  the  mufnod  notes  of  pianos,  and  the 
voice  of  a  street  peddler,  drawing  his  half-empty 
wagon.  One  could  smell  the  springtime  in  the 
air,  a  vague  odor  of  nyacinth  and  hlac. 
12 


178  Froinout  and  Risler, 

Delobellc's  "  mamma  "  had  laid  aside  her  work, 
and,  before  closing  the  window,  leaned  upon  the 
sill  listening  to  all  these  noises  of  a  great  toiling 
city,  taking  delight  in  walking  through  the  streets 
when  its  day's  work  was  ended.  From  time  to 
time  she  spoke  to  her  daughter,  without  turning 
her  head. 

"  Ah  !  there  's  Monsieur  Sigismond.  How  early 
he  leaves  the  factory  to-night.  It  may  be  because 
the  days  are  lengthening  out  so  fast,  but  I  don't 
think  it  can  be  seven  o'clock.  Who  can  that  man 
be  with  the  old  cashier?  —  What  a  funny  thing!  — 
One  would  say  —  Why,  yes  —  One  would  say  it 
was  Monsieur  Frantz.  But  that  is  n't  possible. 
Monsieur  Frantz  is  a  long  way  from  here  at  this 
moment;  and  then  he  had  no  beard.  That  man 
looks  ever  so  much  like  him  all  the  same !  Just 
look,  my  dear." 

But  "  my  dear  "  does  not  leave  her  chair; 'she 
does  not  even  stir.  Her  eyes  staring  into  vacancy, 
her  needle  in  the  air,  arrested  in  its  pretty  industri- 
ous movement,  she  has  gone  away  to  the  blue 
country,  that  wonderful  country  whither  one  may 
go  at  will,  without  thought  of  any  infirmity.  The 
name  Frantz,  uttered  mechanically  by  her  mother, 
because  of  a  chance  resemblance,  represented  to 
her  a  whole  lifetime  of  illusions,  of  fervent  hopes, 
ephemeral  as  the  flush  that  rose  to  her  cheeks 
when,  on  returning  home  at  night,  he  used  to  come 
and  chat  with  her  a  moment.  How  far  away  that 
was  already  !  To  think  that  he  used  to  live  in  the 
little  room  near  hers,  that  they  used  to  hear  his 


The  Jiidge.  179 

step  on  the  stairs  and  the  noise  made  by  his  tabic 
when  he  dragged  it  to  the  window  to  draw.  What 
sorrow  and  what  pleasure  she  used  to  feel  when  he 
talked  to  her  of  Sidonie,  sitting  on  the  low  chair  at 
her  knees,  while  she  mounted  her  birds  and  her 
insects. 

As  she  worked,  she  would  cheer  and  comfort  him, 
for  Sidonie  had  caused  poor  Frantz  many  little 
griefs  before  the  last  great  one.  The  tone  of  his 
voice  when  he  spoke  of  Sidonie,  the  sparkle  in  his 
eyes  when  he  thought  of  her,  fascinated  Desir^e  in 
spite  of  everything,  so  that  when  he  went  away  in 
despair,  he  left  behind  him  a  love  even  greater 
than  that  he  carried  with  him, —  a  love  which  the 
unchanging  room,  the  sedentary,  stagnant  life  kept 
intact  with  all  its  bitter  perfume,  whereas  his  would 
gradually  fade  away  and  vanish  in  the  fresh  air  of 
the  great  highways. 

It  grows  darker  and  darker.  A  great  wave  of 
melancholy  envelops  the  poor  girl  with  the  falling  ' 
darkness  of  that  balmy  evening.  The  blissful  gleam 
from  the  past  dies  away  as  the  last  glimmer  of 
daylight  vanishes  in  the  narrow  recess  of  the  win- 
dow, where  her  mother  still  stands  leaning  on  the 
sill. 

Suddenly  the  door  opens.  Someone  is  there 
whose  features  cannot  be  distinguished.  Who  can 
it  be?  The  Delobelles  never  receive  calls.  The 
mother,  who  has  turned  her  head,  thinks  at  first 
that  someone  has  come  from  the  shop  to  get  their 
week's  work. 

"  My  husband  has  just  gone  to  your  place,  mon- 


I  So  Fromoiit  and  Risler. 

sieur.  We  have  nothing  here.  Monsieur  Delo- 
bclle  has  taken  everything." 

The  man  comes  forward  without  speaking,  and 
as  he  approaches  the  window  his  features  can  be 
made  out.  He  is  a  tall,  solidly  built  fellow  with  a 
bronzed  face,  a  thick  sandy  beard,  and  a  deep 
voice,  and  is  a  little  slow  of  speech. 

"  Aha !  so  you  don't  know  me.  Mamma  Delo- 
belle?" 

"  Oh  !  I  knew  you  at  once.  Monsieur  Frantz,"  said 
Desiree  very  calmly,  in  a  cold,  sedate  tone. 

"  Merciful  heaven  !   it 's  Monsieur  Frantz." 

Quickly,  quickly  Mamma  Delobelle  runs  to  the 
lamp,  lights  it  and  closes  the  window. 

"  What !  it 's  you,  is  it,  my  dear  Frantz?  "  How 
coolly  she  says  it,  the  little  rascal !  "  I  knew  you 
at  once."  Ah  !  the  little  iceberg.  She  will  always 
be  the  same. 

A  veritable  little  iceberg,  in  very  truth.  She  is 
pale,  so  pale ;  and  her  hand  as  it  lies  in  Frantz's  is 
all  white  and  cold. 

She  seems  to  him  improved,  even  more  refined 
than  before. 

He  seems  to  her  superb,  as  always,  with  a  mel- 
ancholy, weary  expression  in  the  depths  of  his 
eyes,  which  makes  him  more  of  a  man  than  when 
he  went  away. 

His  weariness  is  due  to  his  hurried  journey,  un- 
dertaken immediately  on  his  receipt  of  Sigismond's 
letter.  Spurred  on  by  the  word  dishonor,  he  had 
started  instantly,  without  awaiting  his  leave  of 
absence,  risking  his  place  and  his  future  prospects ; 


TJic  Judge.  i8i 

and,  hurrying  from  steamboats  to  railroads,  he  had 
not  stopped  until  he  reached  Paris.  Reason 
enough  for  being  weary,  especially  when  one  has 
travelled  in  eager  haste  to  reach  one's  destination, 
and  when  one's  mind  has  been  constantly  beset  by 
impatient  thoughts,  making  the  journey  ten  times 
over  in  incessant  doubt  and  fear  and  perplexity. 

His  melancholy  dates  from  farther  back.  It 
dates  from  the  day  when  the  woman  he  loved  re- 
fused to  marry  him,  to  become,  six  months  later, 
the  wife  of  his  brother ;  two  terrible  blows  in  close 
succession,  the  second  even  more  painful  than  the 
first.  It  is  true  that,  before  entering  into  that 
marriage,  Risler  had  written  to  him  to  ask  his  per- 
mission to  be  happy,  and  had  written  in  such 
touching,  affectionate  terms,  that  the  violence  of  the 
blow  was  somewhat  diminished  thereby;  and  then, 
in  due  time,  the  life  in  a  strange  country,  the  hard 
work  and  the  long  journeys  had  got  the  better  of 
his  grief.  Now  there  remains  only  a  vast  back- 
ground of  melancholy.  Unless,  indeed,  the  hatred, 
the  wrath  by  which  he  is  animated  at  this  moment 
against  the  woman  who  is  dishonoring  his  brother, 
may  be  a  remnant  of  his  former  love. 

But  no  !  Frantz  Risler  thinks  only  of  avenging 
the  honor  of  the  Rislers.  He  comes  not  as  a  lover 
but  as  a  judge ;  and  Sidonie  may  well  look  to 
herself 

The  judge  had  gone  straight  to  the  factory  on 
leaving  the  train,  relying  upon  the  surprise,  the 
unexpectedness  of  his  arrival,  to  disclose  to  him  at 
a  glance  what  was  taking  place. 


1 82  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

Unluckily  he  had  found  no  one. 

The  blinds  of  the  httle  house  at  the  foot  of  the 
garden  had  been  closed  for  two  weeks. 

Pere  Achille  informed  him  that  the  ladies  were 
at  their  respective  country  seats  where  the  partners 
joined  them  every  evening. 

Fromont  Jeune  had  left  the  factory  very  early; 
Risler  Ainc  had  just  gone. 

Frantz  decided  to  speak  to  old  Sigismond.  But 
it  was  Saturday,  the  regular  pay-day,  and  he  must 
needs  wait  until  the  long  line  of  workmen,  extend- 
ing from  Achille's  lodge  to  the  cashier's  grated 
window,  had  gradually  dropped  away. 

Although  very  impatient  and  very  depressed,  the 
excellent  youth,  who  had  lived  the  life  of  a  Paris 
working  man  from  his  childhood,  felt  a  thrill  of 
pleasure  at  finding  himself  once  more  in  the  midst 
of  the  animated  scenes  peculiar  to  that  time  and 
place.  Upon  all  those  faces,  honest  or  vicious, 
there  was  an  expression  of  satisfaction  that  the 
week  was  at  an  end.  You  felt  that,  so  far  as  they 
were  concerned,  Sunday  began  at  seven  o'clock 
Saturday  evening,  in  front  of  the  cashier's  little 
lamp. 

One  must  have  lived  among  working  men  to 
realize  the  full  charm  of  that  one  day's  rest  and  its 
solemnity.  Many  of  these  poor  creatures,  bound 
fast  to  unhealthy  trades,  await  the  coming  of  the 
blessed  Sunday  like  a  puff  of  respirable  air,  essen- 
tial to  their  health  and  their  life.  What  an  over- 
flow of  spirits,  therefore,  what  a  pressing  need  of 
noisy  mirth !     It  seems  as  if  the  oppression  of  the 


The  Judge.  18 


o 


week's  labor  vanishes  with  the  steam  from  the 
macliincry,  as  it  escapes  in  a  hissing  cloud  of 
vapor  over  the  gutters. 

One  by  one  the  workmen  moved  away  from  the 
grating,  counting  the  money  that  glistened  in  their 
black  hands.  There  were  disappointments,  mut- 
terings,  remonstrances,  hours  missed,  monc}'  drawn 
in  advance;  and  above  the  tinkling  of  coins,  Sigis- 
mond's  voice  could  be  heard,  calm  and  relentless, 
defending  the  interests  of  his  employers  with  a 
zeal   amounting  to  ferocity. 

Frantz  was  familiar  with  all  the  dramas  of  pay- 
day, the  false  accents  and  the  true.  He  knew  that 
one  man's  wages  v/ere  expended  for  his  family,  to 
pay  the  baker,  the  druggist,  or  his  children's 
schooling.  Another  wanted  his  money  for  the 
wine-shop,  or  for  something  even  worse.  And  the 
melancholy,  downcast  shadows  passing  back  and 
forth  in  front  of  the  factory  gateway,  —  he  knew 
what  they  were  waiting  for,  —  that  they  were  all 
on  the  watch  for  a  father  or  a  husband,  to  hurry 
him  home  with  complaining  or  coaxing  words. 

Oh  !  the  bare-footed  children,  the  tiny  creatures 
wrapped  in  old  shawls,  the  shabby  women,  whose 
tear-stained  faces  were  as  white  as  the  linen  caps 
that  surmounted  them. 

Oh  !  the  lurking  vice  that  prowls  about  on  pay- 
day, the  candles  that  are  lighted  in  the  depths  of 
dark  alle}'s,  the  dirty  windows  of  the  wineshops 
where  the  thousand  and  one  poisonous  concoctions 
of  alcohol  display  their  alluring  colors. 

Frantz    was    familiar    with    all    these    forms    of 


184  Fromont  and  Risler, 

misery ;  but  they  had  never  seemed  to  him  so 
depressing,  so  harrowing  as  on  that  evening. 

When  the  last  man  was  paid,  Sigismond  came 
out  of  his  office. 

The  two  friends  recognized  each  other  and  em- 
braced ;  and  in  the  silence  of  the  factory,  at  rest 
for  twenty-four  hours  and  deathly  still  in  all  its 
empty  buildings,  the  cashier  explained  to  Frantz 
the  state  of  affairs.  He  described  Sidonie's  con- 
duct, her  mad  extravagance,  the  utter  wreck  of  the 
family  honor.  The  Rislers  had  bought  a  country 
house  at  Asnieres,  formerly  the  property  of  an 
actress,  and  had  set  up  a  sumptuous  establishment 
there.  They  had  horses  and  carriages,  and  led  a 
luxurious,  fast  life.  The  thing  that  especially 
disturbed  honest  Sigismond  was  the  self-restraint 
of  Fromont  Jeune.  For  some  time  he  had  drawn 
almost  no  money  from  the  strong-box,  and  yet 
Sidonie  was  spending  more  than  ever. 

"  /  Jiaf  no  gonfidence  ! "  said  the  unhappy 
cashier,  shaking  his  head,  "  I /io/  no  gonfidence  !" 

Lowering  his  voice,  he  added  : 

"  But  your  brother,  my  little  Frantz,  your 
brother?  Who  can  explain  his  actions?  He  goes 
about  through  it  all  with  his  eyes  in  the  air,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  mind  on  his  famous  in- 
vention, which  unfortunately  does  n't  move  fast. 
Look  here !  do  you  want  me  to  give  you  my 
opinion?  —  He's  either  a  knave  or  a  fool." 

They  were  walking  up  and  down  the  little  garden 
as  they  talked,  stopping  for  a  moment,  then  resum- 
ing their  walk.     Frantz  felt  as  if  he  were  living  in 


The  Judge.  185 

a  horrible  dream.  The  rapid  journey,  the  sudden 
change  of  scene  and  climate,  the  ceaseless  flow  of 
Sigismond's  words,  the  new  idea  that  he  had  to 
form  of  Risler  and  Sidonie  —  the  same  Sidonie  he 
had  loved  so  dearly — -all  these  things  bewildered 
him  and  almost  drove  him  mad. 

It  was  late.  Night  was  falling.  Sigismond  pro- 
posed to  him  to  go  to  Montrouge  for  the  night; 
he  declined  on  the  plea  of  fatigue,  and  when  he 
was  left  alone  in  the  Marais,  at  that  dismal  and 
uncertain  hour  when  the  daylight  has  faded  and 
the  gas  is  still  unlighted,  he  walked  instinctively 
toward  his  old  quarters  on  Rue  de  l^raque. 

At  the  hall  door  hung  a  placard.  Bachelor's 
Chamber  to  let. 

It  was  the  same  room  in  which  he  had  lived  so 
long  with  his  brother.  He  recognized  the  map 
fastened  to  the  wall  by  four  pins,  the  window  on 
the  landing,  and  the  Dclobclles'  little  sign :  Birds 
and  Insects  for  Ornainoit. 

Their  door  was  ajar ;  he  had  only  to  push  it  a 
little  in  order  to  enter  the  room. 

Certainly  there  was  not  in  all  Paris  a  surer  refuge 
for  him,  a  spot  better  fitted  to  welcome  and  console 
his  perturbed  spirit  than  that  hard-working  familiar 
fireside.  In  his  present  agitation  and  perplexity, 
it  was  like  the  harbor  with  its  smooth,  deep  water, 
the  sunny,  peaceful  quay,  where  the  women  work 
while  awaiting  their  husbands  and  fathers,  while 
the  wind  howls  and  tlie  sea  rages  outside.  More 
than  all  else,  although  he  did  not  realize  that  it 
was  so,  it  was  a  network  of  steadfast  affection,  that 


1 86  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

miraculous  loving-kindness  which  makes  another's 
love  precious  to  us  even  when  we  do  not  love  that 
other. 

That  dear  little  iceberg  of  a  Desiree  loved  him 
so  dearly.  Her  eyes  sparkled  so  even  when  talk- 
ing of  the  most  indifferent  things  with  him.  As 
objects  dipped  in  phosphorus  shine  with  equal 
splendor,  so  the  most  trivial  words  she  said  illumi- 
nated her  pretty  radiant  face.  What  a  blissful  rest 
it  was  for  him  after  Sigismond's  brutal  disclosures. 

They  talked  together  with  great  animation  while 
Mamma  Delobelle  was  setting  the  table. 

"  You  will  dine  with  us,  won't  you,  Monsieur 
Frantz?  Father  has  gone  to  take  back  the 
work;   but  he  will  surely  come  home  to  dinner." 

He  will  surely  come  home  to  dinner ! 

The  good  woman  said  it  with  a  certain  pride. 

In  fact,  since  the  failure  of  his  managerial 
scheme,  the  illustrious  Delobelle  no  longer  took 
his  meals  abroad,  even  on  the  evenings  when  he 
went  to  collect  the  weekly  earnings.  The  un- 
lucky manager  had  eaten  so  many  meals  on 
credit  at  his  restaurant  that  he  dared  not  go 
there  again.  By  way  of  compensation,  he  never 
failed,  on  Saturday,  to  bring  home  with  him  two 
or  three  unexpected,  famished  guests  —  "  old  com- 
rades"—  "unlucky  devils."  So  it  happened  that, 
on  the  evening  in  question,  he  appeared  upon  the 
stage  escorting  a  financier  from  the  Metz  theatre 
and  a  comiqne  from  the  theatre  at  Angers,  both 
on  waiting  orders. 

The  comiqiie,  closely  shaven,  wrinkled,  shrivelled 


TJic  Judge.  187 

by  the  heat  from  the  footlights,  looked  like  an  old 
strcet-arab ;  the  fi}uincier  wore  cloth  shoes,  and 
no  linen  so  far  as  could  be  seen. 

"  Frantz  ! — my  Frantz  !  "  cried  the  old  stroll- 
ing player  in  a  melodramatic  voice,  clawing  the 
air  convulsively  with  his  hands ;  after  a  long  and 
energetic  embrace  he  presented  his  guests  to  one 
another 

"  Monsieur  Robricart,  of  the  theatre  at  Metz. 

"  Monsieur  Chaudezon,  of  the  theatre  at  Angers. 

"  Frantz  Risler,  engineer." 

In  Delobelle's  mouth  that  word  engineer  as- 
sumed vast  proportions  ! 

Desiree  pouted  prettily  when  she  saw  her 
father's  friends.  It  would  have  been  so  nice  to 
be  by  themselves  on  a  day  like  to-day.  But  the 
great  man  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  thought. 
He  had  enough  to  do  to  unload  his  pockets. 
First  of  all,  he  produced  a  superb  pie,  —  "for  the 
ladies,"  he  said,  forgetting  that  he  adored  pie. 
A  lobster  next  made  its  appearance,  then  an 
Aries  sausage,  marrons  glaces  and  cherries,  the 
first  of  the  season  ! 

While  the  fimuicier  enthusiastically  pulled  up 
the  collar  of  his  invisible  shirt,  while  the  coiiiiquc 
exclaimed  "  gnouf !  gnouf !  "  with  a  gesture  for- 
gotten by  Parisians  for  ten  years,  Desiree  thought 
with  dismay  of  the  enormous  hole  that  extempore 
banquet  would  make  in  the  paltry  earnings  of  the 
week,  and  Mamma  Dclobclle,  full  of  business,  up- 
set the  whole  buffet  in  order  to  find  a  sufficient 
number  of  plates. 


1 88  Fromont  and  Risler. 

It  was  a  very  lively  meal.  The  two  actors  ate 
voraciously,  to  the  great  delight  of  Delobelle,  who 
talked  over  with  them  old  memories  of  their  days 
of  strolling.  Imagine  a  collection  of  odds  and 
ends  of  scenery,  extinct  lanterns,  and  mouldy, 
crumbling  stage  properties. 

In  a  sort  of  vulgar,  meaningless,  familiar  slang 
they  recalled  their  innumerable  triumphs;  for  all 
three  of  them,  according  to  their  own  stories, 
had  been  applauded,  laden  with  laurel-wreaths 
and  carried  in  triumph  by  whole  cities. 

While  they  talked  they  ate  as  actors  eat,  sitting 
with  their  faces  turned  three-fourths  toward  the 
audience,  with  the  unnatural  haste  of  stage  guests 
at  a  pasteboard  supper,  alternating  words  and 
mouthfuls,  seeking  to  produce  an  effect  by  their 
manner  of  putting  down  a  glass  or  moving  a 
chair,  and  expressing  interest,  amazement,  joy, 
terror,  surprise  with  the  aid  of  a  skilfully  handled 
knife  and  fork.  Mamma  Delobelle  listened  to 
them  with  a  smiling  face. 

One  cannot  be  an  actor's  wife  for  thirty  years 
without  becoming  somewhat  accustomed  to  these 
peculiar  mannerisms. 

But  one  little  corner  of  the  table  was  separ- 
ated from  the  rest  of  the  party  as  by  a  cloud 
which  intercepted  the  absurd  remarks,  the  hoarse 
laughter,  the  boasting.  Frantz  and  Desiree  talked 
together  in  undertones,  hearing  naught  of  what 
was  said  around  them.  Things  that  happened  in 
their  childhood,  anecdotes  of  the  neighborhood, 
a  whole  ill-defined    past  which   derived    its   only 


The  Judge.  189 

value  from  the  mutual  memories  evoked,  from 
the  spark  that  glowed  in  the  eyes  of  both, — 
those  were  the  themes  of  their  pleasant  chat. 

Suddenly  the  cloud  was  torn  aside  and  Delo- 
belle's  terrible  voice  interrupted  the  dialogue. 

"  Have  you  not  seen  your  brother?"  he  asked, 
in  order  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  neglecting 
him  too  much.  "  And  you  have  not  seen  his 
wife  either?  —  Ah!  you  will  find  her  a  Madame. 
Such  toilettes,  my  dear  fellow,  and  such  cJiic  !  I 
just  tell  you.  They  have  a  genuine  chateau  at 
Asnicres.  The  Chebes  are  there  also.  Ah !  my 
old  friend,  they  have  all  left  us  behind.  They 
are  rich,  they  look  down  on  old  friends.  Never 
a  word,  never  a  call.  For  my  part,  you  under- 
stand, I  snap  my  fingers  at  them,  but  it  really 
wounds  these  ladies." 

"  Oh !  papa,"  said  Desiree  hastily,  "  you  know 
very  well  that  we  are  too  fond  of  Sidonie  to  be 
offended  with  her." 

The  actor  smote  the  table  a  fierce  blow  with  his 
fist. 

"  Why  then  you  do  wrong.  You  ought  to 
be  offended  with  people  who  seek  constantly  to 
wound  and   humiliate  you." 

He  still  had  upon  his  mind  the  refusal  to  furnish 
funds  for  his  theatrical  project,  and  he  made  no 
secret  of  his  wrath. 

"  If  you  knew,"  he  said  to  Frantz,  "  if  you 
knew  how  money  is  being  squandered  over  yon- 
der!  It's  a  great  pity.  And  nothing  substantial, 
nothing  sensible.     I,  I  who  speak  to  you,  asked 


I  go  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

your  brother  for  a  paltry  sum  to  assure  my  future 
and  himself  a  handsome  profit.  He  flatly  refused. 
Parblcii!  Madame  is  too  exacting.  She  rides, 
goes  to  the  races  in  her  carriage,  and  drives  her 
husband  at  the  same  rate  as  her  little  phaeton  on 
the  quay  at  Asnieres.  Between  you  and  me  I 
don't  think  that  our  good  friend  Risler  is  very 
happy.  That  woman  makes  him  believe  black  is 
white." 

The  ex-actor  concluded  his  harangue  with  a 
wink  at  the  comiquc  and  the  financier,  and  for  a 
moment  the  three  exchanged  glances,  conventional 
grimaces,  ha!  has!  and  Jmm!  hums!  and  all  the 
pantomime  expressive  of  thoughts  too  deep  for 
words. 

Frantz  was  struck  dumb.  Do  what  he  would,  the 
horrible  certainty  assailed  him  on  all  sides.  Sigis- 
mond  had  spoken  in  accordance  with  his  nature, 
Delobelle  with  his.     The  result  was  the  same. 

Fortunately  the  dinner  was  drawing  near  its 
close.  The  three  actors  left  the  table  and  betook 
themselves  to  the  brewery  on  Rue  Blondel.  Frantz 
remained  with  the  two  women. 

As  he  sat  beside  her,  gentle  and  affectionate  in 
manner,  Desiree  was  suddenly  conscious  of  a  great 
outflow  of  gratitude  to  Sidonie.  She  said  to  her- 
self that  after  all  it  was  to  her  generosity  that  she 
owed  this  semblance  of  happiness,  and  that 
thought  gave  her  courage  to  defend  her  former 
friend. 

"  You  see.  Monsieur  Frantz,  you  must  n't  believe 
all   my   father  told  you   about   your  sister-in-law. 


The  Judge.  191 

Dear  papa !  he  always  exaggerates  a  little.  I'^or 
my  own  part,  I  am  very  sure  that  Sidonie  is 
incapable  of  all  the  evil  she  's  charged  with.  I  am 
sure  that  her  heart  has  remained  the  same  and 
that  she  is  still  fond  of  her  friends,  although  she 
does  neglect  them  a  little.  Such  is  life,  you  know. 
Friends  drift  apart  without  meaning  to.  Is  n't  that 
true,  Monsieur  Frantz?" 

Oh  !  how  pretty  she  was  in  his  eyes,  while  she 
talked  in  that  strain.  He  had  never  taken  so 
much  notice  of  the  refined  features,  the  aristocratic 
complexion ;  and  when  he  left  her  that  evening, 
deeply  touched  by  the  warmth  she  had  displayed 
in  defending  Sidonie,  by  all  the  charming  feminine 
excuses  she  put  forward  for  her  friend's  silence  and 
neglect,  Frantz  Risler  reflected,  with  a  feeling  of 
selfish  and  ingenuous  pleasure,  that  the  child  had 
loved  him  once  and  that  perhaps  she  loved  him 
still  and  kept  for  him  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
that  warm,  sheltered  spot  to  which  we  turn  as  to 
the  sanctuary  when  life  has  wounded  us. 

All  night  long  in  his  old  room,  lulled  by  the 
movement  of  the  vessel,  by  the  murmur  of  the 
waves  and  the  howling  of  the  wind  which  follow 
long  sea-voyages,  he  dreamed  of  his  youthful  days, 
of  little  Chcbe  and  Desiree  Delobelle,  of  their 
games,  their  labors,  and  of  the  I^cole  Centrale, 
whose  great  gloomy  buildings  were  sleeping  near 
at  hand,  in  the  dark  streets  of  the  Marais. 

And  when  morning  came,  and  the  light  shining 
in  at  his  curtainless  window  vexed  his  eyes  and 
brought  him  back  to  a  realization  of  the  duty  that 


192  Fromont  and  Risler. 

lay  before  him  and  to  the  anxieties  of  the  day,  he 
dreamed  that  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  School,  and 
that  his  brother,  before  going  down  to  the  factory, 
opened  the  door  and  called  to  him : 

"  Come  !  lazybones.     Come  !  " 

That  dear  loving  voice,  too  natural,  too  real  for  a 
dream,  made  him  open  his  eyes  without  more 
ado. 

Risler  was  standing  by  his  bed,  watching  his 
awakening  with  a  charming  smile,  not  untinged 
by  emotion ;  that  it  was  Risler  himself  was  evident 
from  the  fact  that,  in  his  joy  at  seeing  his  brother 
Frantz  once  more,  he  could  find  nothing  better 
to  say  than  :  "  I  am  very  happy,  I  am  very 
happy." 

Although  it  was  Sunday,  Risler,  as  his  custom 
was,  had  come  to  the  factory  to  avail  himself  of 
the  silence  and  solitude  to  work  at  his  press. 
Immediately  on  his  arrival,  Pere  Achille  had 
informed  him  that  his  brother  was  in  Paris  and  had 
gone  to  the  old  house  on  Rue  de  Braque,  and  he 
had  hastened  thither  in  joyful  surprise,  a  little  vexed 
that  he  had  not  been  forewarned,  and  especially 
that  Frantz  had  defrauded  him  of  the  first  evening. 
His  regret  on  that  account  came  to  the  surface 
every  moment  in  his  spasmodic  attempts  at  con- 
versation, in  which  everything  that  he  wanted  to 
say  was  left  unfinished,  interrupted  by  innumerable 
questions  on  all  sorts  of  subjects  and  explosions  of 
affection  and  joy.  Frantz  excused  himself  on  the 
plea  of  fatigue  and  the  pleasure  it  had  given  him  to 
be  in  their  old  room  once  more. 


The  Judge.  193 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  Risler,  "  but  I  sha'n't 
let  you  alone  now — you  are  coming  to  Asnicres 
at  once.  I  give  myself  leave  of  absence  to-day. 
All  thought  of  work  is  out  of  the  question  now 
that  you  have  come,  you  understand.  Ah  !  won't 
the  little  one  be  surprised  and  glad !  We  talk 
about  }^ou  so  often.     What  joy  !  what  joy  !  " 

The  poor  fellow  fairly  beamed  with  happiness, 
he,  the  silent  man,  chattered  like  a  magpie,  gazed 
admiringly  at  his  Frantz  and  remarked  upon  his 
growth.  The  pupil  at  the  Ecole  Centralc  had  a 
fine  physique  when  he  went  away;  but  his  features 
had  acquired  greater  firmness,  his  shoulders  were 
broader,  and  it  was  a  far  cry  from  the  tall  studious- 
looking  boy  who  had  left  Paris  two  years  before 
for  Ismailia,  to  this  handsome  bronzed  corsair, 
with  his  serious  yet  winning  face. 

While  Risler  was  gazing  at  him,  Frantz,  on  his 
side,  was  closely  scrutinizing  his  brother,  and, 
finding  him  the  same  as  always,  as  ingenuous,  as 
loving,  and  as  absent-minded  at  times,  he  said  to 
himself: 

"  No  !  it  is  not  possible  —  he  has  not  ceased  to 
be  an  honest  man." 

Thereupon,  as  he  reflected  upon  what  people 
had  dared  to  imagine,  all  his  wrath  turned  against 
that  hypocritical,  vicious  woman,  who  deceived  her 
husband  so  impudently  and  with  such  absolute 
impunity,  that  she  succeeded  in  causing  him  to  be 
considered  her  confederate.  Oh  !  what  a  terrible 
reckoning  he  proposed  to  have  with  her;  how 
pitilessly  he  would  talk  to  her ! 
13 


194  Froinont  and  Risler. 

"I  forbid  you,  Madame  —  understand  what  I 
say  —  I  forbid  you  to  dishonor  my  brother  !  " 

He  was  thinking  of  that  all  the  way,  as  he 
watched  the  still  leafless  trees  glide  along  the 
banking  of  the  Saint  Germain  railway.  Sitting 
opposite  him,  Risler  chattered,  chattered  without 
pause.  He  talked  about  the  factory,  about  their 
business.  They  had  gained  forty  thousand  francs 
each  the  last  year ;  but  it  would  be  a  different 
matter  when  the  Press  was  at  work.  "  A  rotary 
press,  my  little  Frantz,  rotary  and  dodecagonal, 
capable  of  printing  a  pattern  in  twelve  to  fifteen 
colors  at  a  single  turn  of  the  wheel —  red  on  pink, 
dark  green  on  light  green,  without  the  least  running 
together  or  absorption,  without  a  line  lapping  over 
its  neighbor,  without  any  danger  of  one  shade  de- 
stroying or  overshadowing  another.  Do  you  under- 
stand that,  little  brother?  A  machine  that  is  an 
artist  like  a  man.  It  means  a  revolution  in  the 
wall-paper  trade." 

"  But,"  queried  Frantz  with  some  anxiety,  "  have 
you  invented  this  Press  of  yours  yet,  or  are  you 
still  hunting  for  it?" 

"  Invented  !  — perfected  !  To-morrow  I  will  show 
you  all  my  plans.  I  have  also  invented  an  auto- 
matic crane  for  hanging  the  paper  on  the  rods  in 
the  drying  room.  Next  week  I  propose  to  take  up 
my  quarters  in  the  factory,  way  up  in  the  garret, 
and  have  my  first  machine  made  there  secretly, 
under  my  own  eyes.  In  three  months  the  patents 
must  be  taken  out  and  the  Press  must  be  at  work. 
You  '11  see,  my  little  Frantz,  it  will  make    us   all 


The  Judge.  195 

rich  —  you  can  imagine  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  be 
able  to  make  up  to  these  Fromonts  for  a  little  of 
what  they  have  done  for  me.  Ah  !  upon  my  word, 
the  Lord  has  been  too  good  to  me." 

Thereupon  he  set  about  enumerating  all  his 
blessings.  Sidonie  was  the  best  of  women,  a 
little  love  of  a  wife,  who  conferred  much  honor 
upon  him.  They  had  a  charming  home.  They 
went  into  society,  very  select  society.  The  little 
one  sang  like  a  nightingale,  thanks  to  Madame 
Dobson's  expressive  method.  By  the  way,  this 
Madame  Dobson  was  another  most  excellent  crea- 
ture. There  was  just  one  thing  that  disturbed 
poor  Risler,  that  was  his  incomprehensible  falling- 
out  with  Sigismond.  Perhaps  Frantz  would  help 
him  to  clear  up  that  mystery. 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  will  help  you,  brother,"  replied 
Frantz  through  his  clenched  teeth ;  and  an  angry 
flush  rose  to  his  brow  at  the  idea  that  any  one 
could  have  suspected  the  open-heartedness,  the 
loyalty  that  were  displayed  before  him  in  all  their 
artless  spontaneity.  Luckily  he,  the  judge,  had 
arrived ;  and  he  proposed  to  restore  ever}'thing  to 
its  proper  place. 

Meanwhile,  they  were  drawing  near  the  house  at 
Asnieres.  Frantz  had  noticed  at  a  distance  a  fan- 
ciful little  turreted  affair,  glistening  with  new  blue 
slates.  It  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  built  ex- 
pressly for  Sidonie,  a  fitting  cage  for  that  capri- 
cious, gaudy-plumaged  bird. 

It  was  a  chalet  with  two  stories,  whose  bright 
mirrors    and    pink-lined    curtains    could    be    seen 


196  Froniont  and  Risler. 

from  the  railway,  shining  resplendent  at  the  far 
end  of  a  green  lawn,  where  an  enormous  pewter 
ball  was  suspended. 

The  river  was  near  at  hand,  still  wearing  its 
Parisian  aspect,  filled  with  chains,  bathing  estab- 
lishments, great  barges,  and  multitudes  of  little 
skiffs,  with  a  layer  of  coal  dust  on  their  pretentious 
freshly-painted  names,  tied  to  the  pier  and  rocking 
to  the  slightest  motion  of  the  water.  From  her 
windows  Sidonie  could  see  the  waterside  restau- 
rants, silent  through  the  week,  but  filled  to  over- 
flowing on  Sunday  with  a  motley,  noisy  crowd, 
whose  shouts  of  laughter,  mingled  with  the  dull 
splash  of  oars,  started  from  both  banks  to  meet 
in  midstream  in  that  current  of  vague  murmurs, 
shouts,  calls,  laughter  and  singing  that  floats  with- 
out ceasing  up  and  down  the  Seine  on  holidays 
for  a  distance  of  ten  leagues. 

During  the  week  she  saw  shabbily  dressed  idlers 
sauntering  along  the  shore,  men  in  broad-brimmed 
straw  hats  and  flannel  shirts,  women  who  sat  on 
the  worn  grass  of  the  sloping  bank,  doing  nothing, 
with  the  dreamy  eye  of  a  cow  at  pasture.  All  the 
peddlers,  hand-organs,  harpists,  travelling  jugglers, 
stopped  there  as  at  a  quarantine  station.  The  quay 
was  crowded  with  them,  and  as  they  approached, 
the  windows  in  the  little  houses  near  by  were 
always  thrown  open,  disclosing  white  dressing- 
jackets,  half-buttoned,  heads  of  dishevelled  hair, 
and  an  occasional  pipe,  all  watching  these  paltry 
strolling  shows,  as  if  with  a  sigh  of  regret  for 
Paris,  so  near  at  hand. 


The  Jiidge,  197 

It  was  a  hideous  and  depressing  sight. 

The  grass,  which  had  hardly  begun  to  grow, 
was  already  turning  yellow  beneath  the  feet  of 
the  crowd.  The  dust  was  black;  and  yet,  every 
Thursday,  the  cocotte  aristocracy  passed  through 
on  the  way  to  the  Casino,  with  a  great  show  of 
rickety  carriages  and  borrowed  postilions.  All 
these  things  gave  pleasure  to  that  fanatical  Parisian, 
Sidonie ;  and  then,  too,  in  her  childhood,  she  had 
heard  a  great  deal  about  Asnicrcs  from  the  illus- 
trious Delobelle,  who  would  have  liked  to  have, 
like  so  many  of  his  profession,  a  little  villa  in  those 
latitudes,  a  cosy  nook  in  the  country  to  which  to 
return  by  the  12.30  train,  after  the  play  is  done. 

All  these  dreams  of  little  Chcbe's,  Sidonie  Risler 
had  realized. 

The  brothers  went  to  the  gate  opening  on  the 
quay,  in  which  the  key  was  usually  left.  They 
entered,  making  their  way  among  trees  and  shrubs 
of  recent  growth.  Here  and  there  a  billiard  room, 
the  gardener's  lodge,  a  little  greenhouse,  made  their 
appearance,  like  the  pieces  of  one  of  the  Swiss 
chalets  we  give  to  children  to  play  with ;  all  very 
light  and  airy,  hardly  more  than  resting  on  the 
ground,  as  if  ready  to  fly  away  at  the  slightest 
breath  of  bankruptcy  or  caprice :  the  villa  of  a 
cocotte  or  a  pawnbroker. 

Frantz  looked  about  in  some  bewilderment.  In 
the  distance,  opening  on  a  porch  surrounded  by 
vases  of  flowers,  was  the  salon  with  its  long  blinds 
raised.  An  American  cas)'-chair,  folding-chairs,  a 
sriiall  table   from  which  the  coffee  had  not  been 


1 98  Fromont  and  Risler. 

removed,  could  be  seen  near  the  door.  Within 
they  heard  a  succession  of  loud  chords  on  the 
piano,  and  the  murmur  of  low  voices. 

"  I  tell  you  Sidonic  will  be  surprised,"  said 
honest  Risler,  walking  softly  on  the  gravel ;  "  she 
does  n't  expect  me  until  to-night.  She  and  Madame 
Dobson  are  practising  together  at  this  moment." 

Pushing  the  door  open  suddenly,  he  cried  from 
the  threshold  in  his  loud,  good-natured  voice: 

"  Guess  whom  I  've  brought." 

Madame  Dobson,  who  was  sitting  alone  at  the 
piano,  jumped  up  from  her  stool,  and  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  grand  salon  Georges  and  Sidonie  rose 
hastily  behind  the  exotic  plants  that  reared  their 
heads  above  a  table,  of  whose  delicate,  slender  lines 
they  seemed  a  prolongation. 

"Ah!  how  you  frightened  me!"  said  Sidonie, 
running  to  meet  Risler. 

The  flounces  of  her  white  peignoir,  through 
which  blue  ribands  were  drawn,  like  little  patches 
of  blue  sky  among  the  clouds,  rolled  in  billows 
over  the  carpet,  and,  having  already  recovered 
from  her  embarrassment,  she  stood  very  straight, 
with  an  affable  expression  and  her  everlasting  little 
smile,  as  she  kissed  her  husband  and  offered  her 
forehead  to  Frantz,  saying: 

"  Good  morning,  brother." 

Risler  left  them  confronting  each  other,  and 
went  up  to  Fromont  Jeune,  whom  he  was  greatly 
surprised  to  find  there. 

"What,  Chorche,  you  here?  I  supposed  you 
were  at  Savigny." 


The  Judge.  199 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  but —  I  came —  I  thought  you 
stayed  at  Asnieres  Sundays.  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you  on  a  matter  of  business." 

Thereupon,  entangHng  himself  in  his  words,  he 
began  to  talk  hurriedly  of  an  im})ortant  order. 
Sidonie  had  disappeared  after  exchanging  a  few  un- 
meaning words  with  the  impassive  Frantz.  Madame 
Dobson  continued  her  tremolos  on  the  soft  pedal, 
like  those  which  accompany  critical  situations  at 
the  theatre. 

In  very  truth,  the  situation  at  that  moment  was 
decidedly  strained.  But  Risler's  good  humor  ban- 
ished all  constraint.  He  apologized  to  his  partner 
for  not  being  at  home,  and  insisted  upon  showing 
Frantz  the  house.  They  went  from  the  salon  to 
the  stable,  from  the  stable  to  the  carriage-house, 
the  servants'  quarters  and  the  conservatory.  Every- 
thing was  new,  brilliant,  gleaming,  too  small,  and 
inconvenient, 

"  But,"  said  Risler,  with  a  certain  pride,  "  it  cost 
a  lot  of  money  !  " 

He  persisted  in  compelling  admiration  of  Si- 
donie's  purchase  even  to  its  smallest  details,  exhib- 
ited the  gas  and  water  fixtures  on  ever}-  floor,  the  im- 
proved system  of  bells,  the  garden  seats,  the  English 
billiard  table,  the  lu'dropathic  arrangements,  and 
accompanied  his  exposition  with  outbursts  of  grati- 
tude to  Fromont  Jeune,  who,  by  taking  him  into  part- 
nership, had  literally  placed  a  fortune  in  his  hands. 

At  each  new  effusion  on  Risler's  part,  Georges 
Fromont  shrank  visibl}',  ashamed  and  embarrassed 
by  the  strange  expression  on  Frantz's  face. 


200  Fi'omont  and  Rislcr. 

The  breakfast  was  lacking  in  gayety. 

Madame  Dobson  talked  almost  without  interrup- 
tion, overjoyed  to  be  swimming  in  the  shallows  of 
a  romantic  love-affair.  Knowing,  or  rather  believ- 
ing that  she  knew  her  friend's  story  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  she  understood  the  lowering  wrath 
of  Frantz,  a  former  lover  furious  at  finding  his 
place  filled,  and  the  anxiety  of  Georges,  due  to 
the  appearance  of  a  rival ;  and  she  encouraged 
one  with  a  glance,  consoled  the  other  with  a  smile, 
admired  Sidonie's  tranquil  demeanor,  and  reserved 
all  her  contempt  for  that  abominable  Rislcr,  the 
vulgar,  uncivilized  tyrant.  Her  efforts  were  espe- 
cially directed  to  the  end  that  there  should  be  none 
of  those  horrible  periods  of  silence,  when  the 
clashing  knives  and  forks  mark  time  in  such  an 
absurd  and  embarrassing  way. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  at  an  end  Fromont 
Jeune  announced  that  he  must  return  to  Savigny, 
Risler  did  not  dare  detain  him,  thinking  that  his 
dear  Madame  Chorche  would  pass  her  Sunday  all 
alone ;  and  so,  without  an  opportunity  to  say  a 
word  to  his  mistress,  the  lover  went  away  in  the 
bright  sunlight  to  take  an  afternoon  train,  still 
attended  by  the  husband,  who  insisted  upon  escort- 
ing him  to  the  station. 

Madame  Dobson  sat  for  a  moment  with  Frantz 
and  Sidonie  under  a  little  arbor  which  a  climbing 
vine  studded  with  pink  buds ;  then,  realizing  that 
she  was  in  the  way,  she  returned  to  the  salon,  and 
as  before,  while  Georges  was  there,  began  to  play 
and  sing  softly  and  with  expression.     In  the  silent 


The  Judge.  20 1 

garden,  that  nuifflcd  music,  glidinf^  between  the 
branches,  seemed  Hke  the  cooing  of  birds  before 
the  storm. 

At  last  they  were  alone. 

Under  the  lattice  of  the  arbor,  still  bare  and 
leafless,  the  May  sun  shone  too  bright.  Sidonie 
shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand  as  she  watched 
the  people  passing  on  the  quay.  Frantz  likewise 
looked  out,  but  in  another  direction ;  and  both  of 
them,  affecting  to  be  entirely  independent  of  each 
other,  turned  at  the  same  instant  with  the  same 
gesture  and  moved  by  the  same  thought. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  said,  just 
as  she  opened  her  mouth. 

"And  I  to  you,"  she  replied  gravely;  "but 
come  in  here ;  we  shall  be  more  comfortable." 

And  they  entered  together  a  little  summer-house 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 


202  Fromont  and  Risler. 


II. 

EXPLANATION. 

Verily  it  was  high  time  that  the  judge  should 
come. 

This  httle  woman  was  whirHng  madly  around  in 
the  Parisian  maelstrom.  Upheld  by  her  very 
lightness,  she  still  remained  on  the  surface; 
but  her  outrageous  extravagance,  the  ostentatious 
luxury  of  her  surroundings,  her  rapidly  increasing 
contempt  for  all  the  proprieties  of  hfe,  all  an- 
nounced that  she  would  soon  sink,  dragging  with 
her  her  husband's  honor,  and,  it  might  be,  the 
fortune  and  good  name  of  a  prominent  business 
house,  ruined  by  her  madness. 

Her  present  environment  tended  to  hasten  her 
destruction.  At  Paris,  in  the  quarters  inhabited 
by  petty  tradesmen,  which  are  veritable  provincial 
towns  for  malevolence  and  gossip,  she  was  obliged 
to  be  more  careful;  but  in  her  house  at  Asnieres, 
surrounded  by  strolling  actors'  cottages,  contra- 
band households,  dry  goods  clerks  on  a  vacation, 
she  did  not  feel  the  same  restraint.  There  was  an 
atmosphere  of  vice  about  her  which  suited  her, 
which  she  breathed  without  distaste.  The  music 
of  the  ball-room  entertained  her  in  the  evening,  as 
she  sat  in  her  little  erarden. 


Explanation.  203 

A  pistol-shot  in  the  next  house  one  night,  which 
set  the  whole  neighborhood  agog  over  a  common- 
place, foolish  intrigue,  made  her  dream  of  similar 
adventures.  She  would  have  liked  to  be  the 
heroine  of  a  "  story "  herself  Throwin-g  aside 
all  restraint  in  the  matter  of  language  and  dress, 
on  the  days  when  she  did  not  ride  on  the  quay  at 
Asnieres,  in  a  short  skirt  and  twirling  a  hunting- 
crop  in  her  hand,  like  a  female  dandy  at  Trouville 
or  Houlgate,  she  remained  at  home,  dressed  in  a 
wrapper  like  her  neighbors,  absolutely  inactive, 
paying  little  or  no  attention  to  her  house,  where 
her  servants  robbed  her  like  a  cocotte  without  a 
suspicion  on  her  part.  This  same  woman,  who 
was  seen  in  the  saddle  every  morning,  passed  whole 
hours  talking  with  her  maid  of  the  strange  house- 
holds that  surrounded  her. 

By  slow  degrees  she  sank  to  her  former  level, 
yes,  even  lower.  From  the  rich,  well-considered 
bourgeoisie  to  which  her  marriage  had  raised  her, 
she  descended  the  ladder  to  the  rank  of  kept 
woman.  By  dint  of  travelling  in  railway  carriages 
with  fantastically  dressed  courtesans,  with  their 
hair  worn  over  their  eyes  like  a  terrier's,  or  falling 
over  the  back  a  la  Genevieve  de  Brabant,  she 
came  at  last  to  resemble  them.  She  transformed 
herself  into  a  blonde  for  two  months,  to  the  un- 
bounded amazement  of  Risler,  who  could  not 
understand  how  his  doll  was  so  changed.  As  for 
Georges,  all  these  eccentricities  amused  him ;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  ten  women  in  one. 
He  was  the  real  husband,  the  master  of  the  house. 


204  Fromont  and  Risler. 

To  divert  Sidonie's  thoughts,  he  had  provided  a 
simulacrum  of  society  for  her  —  his  bachelor 
friends,  a  few  fast  tradesmen,  almost  no  women ; 
women  have  too  sharp  eyes.  Madame  Dobson 
was  the  only  friend  of  Sidonie's  sex. 

They  organized  grand  dinner-parties,  excursions 
on  the  water,  fireworks.  From  day  to  day  Risler's 
position  became  more  absurd,  more  distressing. 
When  he  came  home  in  the  evening,  tired  out, 
shabbily  dressed,  he  must  hurry  up  to  his  room  to 
dress. 

"  We  have  some  people  to  dinner,"  his  wife 
would  say.     "  Make  haste." 

And  he  would  be  the  last  to  take  his  place  at 
the  table,  after  shaking  hands  all  around  with  his 
guests,  friends  of  Fromont  Jeune,  whom  he  hardly 
knew  by  name.  Strange  to  say,  the  affairs  of  the 
factory  were  often  discussed  at  that  table,  to  which 
Georges  brought  his  acquaintances  from  the  club 
with  the  tranquil  self-assurance  of  the  gentleman 
who  pays. 

"  Business  breakfasts  and  dinners  !  "  To  Risler's 
mind  that  phrase  explained  everything :  his  part- 
ner's constant  presence,  his  choice  of  guests,  and 
the  marvellous  gowns  worn  by  Sidonie,  who  beau- 
tified herself  in  the  interest  of  the  firm.  This 
coquetry  on  his  mistress's  part  drove  Fromont 
Jeune  to  despair.  Day  after  day  he  came  unex- 
pectedly to  take  her  by  surprise,  uneasy,  suspicious, 
afraid  to  leave  that  perverse  and  deceitful  character 
to  its  own  devices  for  long. 

"  What  in  the  deuce  has  become  of  your  hus- 


Explanation.  205 

baiul?"  Pore  Gardinois  would  ask  his  grand- 
dauc^htcM"  with  a  cunning  leer.  "Why  doesn't 
he  come  here  oftcner?" 

Claire  apologized  for  Georges,  but  his  constant 
neglect  began  to  disturb  her.  She  wept  now  when 
she  received  the  little  notes,  the  despatches  which 
arrived  daily  at  the  dinner  hour:  "Don't  expect 
nie  to-night,  dear  love.  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
come  to  Savigny  until  to-morrow  or  the  day  after 
by  the  night-train." 

She  ate  her  dinner  sadl)',  opposite  an  empty 
chair,  and  although  she  did  not  know  that  she 
was  betrayed,  she  felt  that  her  husband  was  becom- 
ing accustomed  to  live  away  from  her.  He  was  so 
distraught  when  a  family  gathering  or  some  other 
unavoidable  diity  detained  him  at  the  chateau,  so 
reticent  concerning  what  was  in  his  mind.  Claire, 
having  now  only  the  most  distant  relations  with 
Sidonie,  knew  nothing  of  what  was  taking  place  at 
Asnieres :  but  when  Georges  left  her,  apparently 
eager  to  be  gone,  and  with  smiling  face,  she  tor- 
mented her  loneliness  with  unavowed  suspicions, 
and,  like  all  those  who  anticipate  a  great  sorrow, 
she  suddenly  became  conscious  of  a  great  void  in 
her  heart,  a  place  made  ready  for  disasters  to 
come. 

Her  husband  was  hardly  happier  than  she. 
That  cruel  Sidonie  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  tor- 
menting him.  She  allowed  everybody  to  pay 
court  to  her.  At  that  moment  a  certain  Cazabon, 
alias  Cazaboni,  an  Italian  tenor  from  Toulouse, 
introduced  by  Madame  Dobson,  came  every  day 


2o6  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

to  sing  disturbing  duets.  Georges,  jealous  beyond 
words,  hurried  to  Asnieres  in  the  afternoon, 
neglected  everything,  and  was  already  beginning 
to  think  that  Risler  did  not  watch  his  wife  closely 
enough.  He  would  have  liked  him  to  be  blind 
only  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

Ah !  if  he  had  been  her  husband,  what  a  tight 
rein  he  would  have  kept  on  her !  But  he  had  no 
power  over  her  and  she  was  not  at  all  backward 
about  telling  him  so.  Sometimes,  too,  with  the 
invincible  logic  that  often  occurs  to  the  greatest 
fools,  he  reflected  that,  as  he  was  deceiving  his 
friend,  perhaps  he  deserved  to  be  deceived.  In 
short,  his  was  a  wretched  life.  He  passed  his  time 
running  about  to  jewellers  and  dry  goods  dealers, 
inventing  gifts  and  surprises.  Ah  !  he  knew  her 
well.  He  knew  that  he  could  amuse  her  with 
trinkets,  not  retain  his  hold  upon  her,  and  that, 
when  the  day  came  that  she  was  bored 

But  Sidonie  was  not  bored  as  yet.  She  was 
living  the  life  that  she  longed  to  live ;  she  had  all 
the  happiness  she  could  hope  to  attain.  There 
was  nothing  passionate  or  romantic  about  her 
love  for  Georges.  He  was  like  a  second  husband 
to  her,  younger  and,  above  all,  richer  than  the 
other.  To  complete  the  vulgarization  of  their 
liaison,  she  had  summoned  her  parents  to  Asnieres, 
quartered  them  in  a  little  house  in  the  country,  and 
made  of  that  vain  and  wilfully  blind  father  and  that 
affectionate,  still  bewildered  mother  a  halo  of 
respectability  of  which  she  felt  the  necessity  as 
she  sank  lower  and  lower. 


Explajiation.  207 

EvcrythinjT  was  shrcwdl)'  planned  in  that  pcr- 
versc  little  brain,  which  rcdcctcd  coolly  upon  vice ; 
and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  might  continue  to  live 
thus  in  peace,  when  Frantz  Risler  suddenly  arrived. 

Simply  from  seeing  him  enter  the  room,  she  had 
realized  that  her  repose  was  threatened,  that  an 
interview  of  the  gravest  importance  was  to  take 
place  between  them. 

Her  plan  was  formed  on  the  instant.  It  re- 
mained to  put  it  in  execution. 

The  summer-house  that  they  entered  contained 
one  large  circular  room  with  four  windows,  each 
looking  out  upon  a  different  landscape;  it  was 
furnished  for  the  purposes  of  summer  siestas,  for 
the  hot  hours  when  one  seeks  shelter  from  the 
sunlight  and  the  noises  of  the  garden.  A  broad, 
very  low  divan  ran  all  around  the  wall.  A  small 
lacquered  table,  also  very  low,  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  covered  with  odd  numbers  of  society 
journals. 

The  hangings  were  new,  and  the  Persian  pat- 
tern —  birds  flying  among  bluish  reeds,  —  pro- 
duced the  effect  of  a  dream  in  summer,  ethereal 
figures  floating  before  one's  drooping  eyes.  The 
lowered  blinds,  the  matting  on  the  floor,  the  Vir- 
ginia jasmine  clinging  to  the  trellis-work  outside, 
produced  a  refreshing  coolness  which  was  en- 
hanced by  the  constant  splashing  in  the  river  near 
by,  and  the  lapping  of  its  tiny  wavelets  on  the 
shore. 

Sidonie   sat  down  as  soon   as  she   entered   the 


2oS  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

room,  throwing  aside  her  long  white  skirt,  which 
sank  Hke  a  mass  of  snow  at  the  foot  of  the  divan ; 
and  with  sparkHng  eyes  and  a  smile  playing  about 
her  lips,  bending  her  little  head  slightly,  its  saucy 
coqucttishness  heightened  by  the  bow  of  ribbon 
on  the  side,  she  waited. 

Frantz,  pale  as  death,  remained  standing,  look- 
ing about  the  room.     After  a  moment  he  began: 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Madame;  you  understand 
how  to  make  yourself  comfortable." 

And  in  the  next  breath,  as  if  he  were  afraid  that 
the  conversation,  beginning  at  such  a  distance, 
would  not  arrive  quickly  enough  at  the  point  to 
which  he  intended  to  lead  it,  he  added  brutally : 

"  To  whom  do  you  owe  this  magnificence,  to 
your  lover  or   your  husband?" 

Without  moving  from  the  divan,  without  even 
raising  her  eyes  to  his,  she  answered : 

"To  both." 

He  was  a  little  disconcerted  by  such  self- 
possession. 

"  Then  you  confess  that  that  man  is  your 
lover? " 

"  Confess  it !  — parblm,  yes  !  " 

Frantz  gazed  at  her  a  moment  without  speak- 
ing. She  too  had  turned  pale,  notwithstanding 
her  calmness,  and  the  everlasting  little  smile  no 
longer  quivered  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

He  continued : 

**  Listen  to  me,  Sidonie.  My  brother's  name, 
the  name  he  gave  his  wife,  is  mine  as  well.  Since 
Risler  is  so  foolish,  so  blind  as  to  allow  the  name 


Explanation.  209 

to  be  dishonored  by  you,  it  is  my  place  to  defend 
it  against  your  attacks.  I  beg  you,  therefore,  to 
inform  Monsieur  Georges  Fromont  that  he  must 
change  mistresses  as  soon  as  possible,  and  go  else- 
where to  ruin  himself.     If  not  —  " 

"  If  not?  "  queried  Sidonie,  who  had  not  ceased 
to  play  with  her  rings  while  he  was  speaking. 

"  If  not,  I  shall  tell  my  brother  what  is  going  on 
in  his  house,  and  you  will  be  surprised  at  the 
Rislcr  whose  acquaintance  you  will  make  then  — 
a  man  as  violent  and  ungovernable  as  he  usually  is 
inoffensive.  My  disclosure  will  kill  him  perhaps, 
but  you  can  be  sure  that  he  will  kill  you  first." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Very  well!  let  him  kill  me.  What  do  I  care 
for  that?" 

This  was  said  with  such  a  heartbroken,  utterly 
despondent  air,  that  Frantz,  in  spite  of  himself,  felt 
a  little  pity  for  that  beautiful,  fortunate  young 
creature,  who  talked  of  dying  with  such  self- 
abandonment. 

"Do  you  love  him  so  dearly?"  he  said,  in  an 
indefinably  milder  tone.  "  Do  you  love  this  Fro- 
mont so  dearly  that  you  prefer  to  die  rather  than 
renounce  him?" 

She  hastily  drew  herself  up. 

"I?  Love  that  fop,  that  d(jll,  that  silly  girl  in 
men's  clothes?  Nonsense! — I  took  him  as  I 
would  have  taken  any  other  man." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  could  n't  help  it,  because  I  was  mad, 
because  I  had  and  still  have  in  ni}'  heart  a  criminal 
14 


2IO  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

love,  which  I  am  determined  to  tear  out,  no  matter 
at  what  cost." 

She  had  risen  and  was  speaking  with  her  eyes 
in  his,  her  Hps  near  his,  shivering  from  head  to 
foot. 

A  criminal  love  !  —  Whom  did  she  love,  in  God's 
name  ? 

Frantz  was  afraid  to  question  her. 

Although  suspecting  nothing  as  yet,  he  had  a 
feeling  that  that  glance,  that  breath,  leaning  toward 
him,  were  about  to  make  some  horrible  disclosure. 

But  his  office  of  judge  made  it  necessary  for  him 
to  know  all. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked. 

She  replied  in  a  stifled  voice: 

"  You  know  very  well  that  it  is  you." 

She  was  his  brother's  wife. 

For  two  years  he  had  not  thought  of  her  except 
as  a  sister.  In  his  eyes  his  brother's  wife  in  no 
way  resembled  his  former  fiancee,  and  it  would 
have  been  a  crime  to  recognize  in  a  single  feature 
of  her  face  the  woman  to  whom  he  had  formerly 
so  often  said  :    "  I  love  you." 

And  now  it  was  she  who  said  that  she  loved 
him. 

The  unhappy  judge  was  thunderstruck,  dazed, 
could  find  no  words  in   which  to  reply. 

She,  standing  before  him,  waited. 

It  was  one  of  those  spring  days,  full  of  heat  and 
light,  to  which  the  moisture  of  recent  rains  imparts 
a  strange  softness  and  melancholy.  The  air  was 
warm,  perfumed  by  fresh   flowers  which,  on  that 


Explanation.  211 

first  day  of  heat,  gax'c  forth  their  fragrance  eagerly, 
hke  violets  in  a  nuiff.  Through  its  long,  open 
windows  the  room  in  which  they  were  inhaled  all 
those  intoxicating  odors.  Outside,  they  could 
hear  the  Sunday  organs,  distant  shouts  on  the 
river,  and  nearer  at  hand,  in  the  garden,  Madame 
Dobson's  amorous,  languishing  voice,  sighing: 

"  0)1  dit  que  til  ie  tnaries  j 
Tu  sais  que  fen  puis  motiri-i-i-r  .f^ 

"  Yes,  Frantz,  I  have  ahva}'s  loved  you,"  said 
Sidonie.  "  That  love  which  I  renounced  long  ago 
because  I  was  a  young  girl,  and  young  girls  do  not 
know  what  they  are  doing,  —  that  love  nothing 
has  ever  succeeded  in  destroying  or  lessening. 
When  I  learned  that  Desiree  also  loved  you,  the 
unfortunate,  penniless  child,  in  a  great  outburst 
of  generosity  I  determined  to  assure  her  happiness 
for  life  by  sacrificing  my  own,  and  I  at  once  turned 
you  away,  so  that  you  should  go  to  her.  Ah !  as 
soon  as  you  had  gone,  I  realized  that  the  sacrifice 
was  beyond  my  strength.  Poor  little  Desirce ! 
How  I  cursed  her  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart ! 
Will  you  believe  it?  Since  that  time  I  have  avoided 
seeing  her,  meeting  her.  The  sight  of  her  caused 
me  too  much  pain." 

"  But  if  you  loved  me,"  asked  Frantz,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  if  you  loved  me,  why  did  you  marry  my 
brother?  " 

She  did  not  waver. 

"  To  marry  Risler  was  to  bring  myself  nearer  to 
you.     I  said  to  myself:   *  I  could  not  be  his  wife. 


212  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Very  well,  I  will  be  his  sister.  At  all  events,  in 
that  way  it  will  still  be  allowable  for  me  to  love 
him,  and  we  shall  not  pass  our  whole  lives  as 
strangers.'  Alas !  those  are  the  innocent  dreams 
a  girl  has  at  twenty,  dreams  of  which  she  very 
soon  learns  the  impossibility.  I  could  n't  love 
you  as  a  sister,  Frantz ;  I  could  n't  forget  you, 
either ;  my  marriage  prevented  that.  With  another 
husband  I  might  perhaps  have  succeeded,  but  with 
Risler  it  was  terrible.  He  was  forever  talking 
about  you  and  your  success  and  your  future.  — 
Frantz  said  this ;  Frantz  did  that.  —  He  loves  you 
so  well,  poor  fellow.  And  then  the  most  cruel 
thing  to  me  is  that  your  brother  looks  like  you. 
There 's  a  sort  of  family  resemblance  in  your 
features,  in  your  gait,  in  your  voices  especially,  for 
I  have  often  closed  my  eyes  under  his  caresses, 
saying  to  myself:  '  It  is  he,  it  is  Frantz.'  When  I 
saw  that  that  criminal  thought  was  becoming  a 
source  of  torment  to  me,  something  that  I  could 
not  escape,  I  tried  to  find  distraction,  I  consented 
to  listen  to  this  Georges,  who  had  been  pestering 
me  for  a  long  time,  to  transform  my  life  to  one  of 
noise  and  excitement.  But  I  swear  to  you,  Frantz, 
that  in  that  whirlpool  of  pleasure  into  which  I  then 
plunged,  I  have  never  ceased  to  think  of  you,  and 
if  anyone  had  a  righ't  to  come  here  and  call  me  to 
account  for  my  conduct,  you  certainly  are  not  the 
one,  for  you,  unintentionally,  have  made  me  what 
I  am." 

She  paused. 

Frantz  dared  not  raise  his  eyes  to  her  face.     For 


Exp  la  n  a  Hon.  213 

a  moment  past  she  had  seemed  to  him  too  lovely, 
too  alluring.     She  was  his  brother's  wife ! 

Nor  did  he  dare  speak.  The  unfortunate  youth 
felt  that  the  old  passion  was  despotically  taking 
possession  of  his  heart  once  more,  and  that  at  that 
moment  glances,  words,  everything  that  burst  forth 
from  it  would  be  love. 

And  she  was  his  brother's  wife ! 

"  Ah  !  wretched,  wretched  creatures  that  we 
are!  "  exclaimed  the  poor  judge,  dropping  upon 
the  divan  beside  her. 

Those  few  words  were  in  themselves  an  act  of 
cowardice,  a  beginning  of  surrender,  as  if  destiny, 
by  showing  itself  so  pitiless,  had  deprived  him  of 
the  strength  to  defend  himself.  Sidonie  had  placed 
her  hand  on  his.  "  Frantz — Frantz  !  "  she  said; 
and  they  remained  there  side  by  side,  silent  and 
burning  with  emotion,  soothed  by  Madame  Dob- 
son's  romanza,  which  reached  their  cars  by  snatches 
through  the  shrubbery : 

"  Ton  amour,  c\'st  tiia  folic. 
Ht'las  !  jc  )i'e)i  puis  gj(cri-i-i-ry 

Suddenly  Risler's  tall  figure  appeared  in  the 
doorway. 

"  This  way,  Chebe,  this  way.  They  are  in  the 
suniincr-house." 

As  he  spoke,  the  goodman  entered,  escorting 
his  Hither-in-law  and  mother-in-law,  whom  he  had 
gone  to  fetch. 

There  was  a  moment  of  effusive  greetings  and 
innumerable  embraces.     You  should  have  seen  the 


2  14  Fromont  and  Risler. 

patronizing  air  with  which  Monsieur  Chebe  scru- 
tinized the  young  man,  who  was  head  and  shoul- 
ders taller  than  he. 

"  Well,  my  boy,  does  the  Suez  canal  progress  as 
you  would  wish?  " 

Madame  Chebe,  in  whose  thoughts  Frantz  had 
never  ceased  to  be  her  future  son-in-law,  threw  her 
arms  around  him,  while  Risler,  tactless  as  usual  in 
his  gayety  and  his  enthusiasm,  waved  his  arms 
madly  on  the  stoop,  talked  of  killing  several  fatted 
calves  to  celebrate  the  return  of  the  prodigal  son, 
and  roared  to  the  singing-mistress  in  a  voice  that 
echoed  through  the  neighboring  gardens : 

"  Madame  Dobson,  Madame  Dobson  —  if  you  '11 
allow  me,  it 's  a  pity  for  you  to  be  singing  there. 
To  the  devil  with  expression  for  to-day.  Play  us 
something  lively,  a  good  waltz,  so  that  I  can  take 
a  turn  with  Madame  Chebe." 

"Risler,  Risler,  are  you  crazy,  my  son-in-law?" 

"  Come,  come,  mamma  !     We  must  —  hop  !  " 

And  up  and  down  the  paths,  to  the  strains  of 
an  automatic  six-step  waltz  —  a  genuine  vcr/se  de 
VaiLcanson  —  he  dragged  his  breathless  mamma- 
in-law,  who  stopped  at  every  step  to  restore  to 
their  usual  orderliness  the  dangling  ribands  of  her 
hat  and  the  lace  trimming  of  her  shawl,  her  lovely 
shawl  bought  for  Sidonie's  wedding. 

Poor  Risler  was  drunk  with  joy. 

To  Frantz  that  was  an  endless,  indelible  day  of 
agony.  Driving,  rowing  on  the  river,  lunch  on  the 
grass  on  the  lie  des  Ravageurs  —  he  was  spared 
none  of  the  charms  of  Asnieres ;   and  all  the  time. 


Explanation.  215 

in  the  glaring  sunlight  of  the  roads,  in  the  glare 
reflected  by  the  water,  he  must  laugh  and  chatter, 
describe  his  journey,  talk  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez 
and  the  great  work  undertaken  there,  listen  to  the 
whispered  complaints  of  Monsieur  Chcbe,  who  was 
still  incensed  with  his  children,  and  to  his  brother's 
description  of  the  Press.  "  Rotary,  my  dear  h'rantz, 
rotary  and  dodecagonal !  "  Sidonie  left  the  gentle- 
men to  their  conversation  and  seemed  absorbed  in 
deep  thought.  From  time  to  time  she  said  a  word 
or  two  to  Madame  Dobson,  or  smiled  sadly  at  her, 
and  Frantz,  not  daring  to  look  at  her,  followed  the 
motions  of  her  blue-lined  parasol  and  of  the  white 
flounces  of  her  dress. 

How  she  had  changed  in  two  years !  How 
lovely  she  had  grown  ! 

Then  horrible  thoughts  came  to  his  mind.  There 
were  races  at  Longchamps  that  day.  Carriages 
passed  theirs,  rubbed  against  it,  driven  by  women 
with  painted  faces,  closely  veiled.  Sitting  motion- 
less on  the  box,  they  held  their  long  whips  straight 
in  the  air,  with  doll-like  gestures,  and  nothing 
about  them  seemed  alive  except  their  blackened 
eyes,  fixed  on  the  horses'  heads.  As  they  passed, 
people  turned  to  look.  Every  eye  followed  them, 
as  if  drawn  by  the  wind  caused  by  their  rapid 
motion. 

Sidonie  resembled  those  creatures.  She  might 
herself  have  driven  Georges's  carriage;  for  Frantz 
was  in  Georges's  carriage.  He  had  drunk  Georges's 
wine.  All  the  luxurious  enjoyment  of  that  family 
party  came  from  Georges. 


2i6  Fromont  and  Risler, 

It  was  shameful,  revolting.  He  would  have 
hked  to  shout  the  whole  story  to  his  brother.  In- 
deed  it  was  his  duty,  as  he  had  come  there  for  that 
express  purpose.  But  he  no  longer  felt  the  cour- 
age to  do  it. 

Ah  !  the  unhappy  judge  ! 

That  evening  after  dinner,  in  the  salon  open  to 
the  fresh  breeze  from  the  river,  Risler  begged  his 
wife  to  sing.  He  wished  her  to  exhibit  all  her 
newly-acquired  talents  to  Frantz. 

Sidonie,  leaning  on  the  piano,  objected  with  a 
melancholy  air,  while  Madame  Dobson  ran  her 
fingers  over  the  keys,  shaking  her  long  curls. 

"  But  I  don't  know  anything.  What  do  you 
want  me  to  sing?  " 

She  ended,  however,  by  being  persuaded.  Pale, 
disenchanted,  with  her  mind  upon  other  things,  in 
the  flickering  light  of  the  candles  which  seemed  to 
be  burning  incense,  the  air  was  so  heavy  with  the 
odor  of  the  hyacinths  and  lilacs  in  the  garden,  she 
began  a  Creole  ballad  very  popular  in  Louisiana, 
which  Madame  Dobson  herself  had  arranged  for 
the  voice  and  piano  : 

"  Pauv'  pititMam^zelle  Zizi, 
Oest  Pamoii,  faviou  qici  totirne  la  Ute  a  li?''  ^ 

And  as  she  told  the  story  of  the  ill-fated  little 
Zizi,  who  was  driven  mad  by  passion,  Sidonie  had 
the  appearance  of  a  lovesick  woman.  With  \\hat 
heartrending  expression,  with  the  cry  of  a  wounded 

1  "  Poor  little  Mam'zelle  Zizi, 

'T  is  love,  't  is  love  that  turns  her  head." 


Explanation.  2 1 7 

dove,  did  she  repeat  that  refrain,  so  melancholy  and 
so  sweet,  in  the  childlike  patois  of  the  colonies : 

"  Cest  r  anion,  r  anion  qui  ton  me  la  tete  a  li^ 

It  was  enough  to  drive  the  unlucky  judge  mad 
as  well. 

But  no.  The  siren  had  been  unfortunate  in  her 
choice  of  a  ballad.  For,  at  the  mere  name  of 
Mam'zelle  Zizi,  Frantz  was  suddenly  transported 
to  a  gloomy  chamber  in  the  Marais,  a  long  way 
from  Sidonie's  salon,  and  his  compassionate  heart 
evoked  the  image  of  little  Dosiree  Delobelle,  who 
had  loved  him  so  long.  Until  she  was  fifteen,  she 
had  never  been  called  anything  but  Ziree  or  Zizi, 
and  she  was  \he  pmtv  pitit  Zizi  of  the  Creole  bal- 
lad to  the  life,  the  ever-neglected,  ever-faithful 
lover.  In  vain  now  did  the  other  sing.  Frantz  no 
longer  heard  her  or  saw  her.  He  was  in  that  poor 
room,  beside  the  great  arm-chair,  on  the  little  low 
chair  on  which  he  had  sat  so  often  awaiting  the 
father's  return.  Yes,  there,  and  there  only,  was 
his  salvation.  He  must  take  refuge  in  that  child's 
love,  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  say  to  her:  "Take 
me  —  save  me!"  And  who  knows?  She  loved 
him  so  dearly.  Perhaps  she  would  save  him,  would 
cure  him  of  his  guilty  passion. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Risler,  seeing 
that  his  brother  rose  hurriedly  as  soon  as  the  last 
flourish  was  at  an  end. 

"  I  am  going  back.     It  is  late." 

"What!  You  are  not  going  to  sleep  here? 
Why,  your  room  is  ready  for  you.  " 


2 1 8  Fromoni  and  Risler. 

"  All  ready,"  added  Sidonie,  with  a  meaning 
glance. 

He  refused  resolutely.  His  presence  in  Paris 
was  necessary  for  the  fulfilment  of  certain  very 
important  commissions  entrusted  to  him  by  the 
Company.  They  continued  their  efforts  to  detain 
him  when  he  was  in  the  vestibule,  when  he  was 
crossing  the  garden  in  the  moonlight  and  run- 
ning to  the  station,  amid  all  the  diverse  noises 
of  Asnieres. 

When  he  had  gone,  Risler  went  up  to  his  room, 
leaving  Sidonie  and  Madame  Dobson  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  salon.  The  music  from  the  neighbor- 
ing Casino  reached  their  ears,  with  the  "  Yo-ho  !  " 
of  the  boatmen  and  the  footsteps  of  the  dancers 
like  a  rhythmical,  muffled  drumming  on  the 
tambourine. 

"  There  's  a  kill-joy  for  you  !  "  observed  Madame 
Dobson. 

'*  Oh  !  I  have  checkmated  him,"  replied  Sidonie; 
"  only  I  must  be  careful.  I  shall  be  closely  watched 
now.  He  is  so  jealous.  I  am  going  to  write  to 
Cazaboni  not  to  come  again  for  some  time,  and 
you  must  tell  Georges  to-morrow  morning  to  go  to 
Savigny  for  a  fortnight." 


Poor  Little  Mam  zc lie  Zizi,  219 


III. 

POOR   LITTLE   MAM'ZELLE  ZIZL 

Oil  !  how  happy  Dcsiree  was  ! 

Frantz  came  every  day  and  sat  at  her  feet  on  the 
little  low  chair,  as  in  the  good  old  days,  and  he  no 
longer  came  to  talk  of  Sidonie. 

As  soon  as  she  began  to  work  in  the  morning, 
she  would  see  the  door  open  softly.  "  Good  morn- 
ing, Mam'zellc  Zizi."  He  always  called  her  now 
by  the  name  she  had  borne  as  a  child  ;  and  if  }'ou 
could  know  how  prettily  he  said  it:  "  Good  morn- 
ing, INIam'zelle  Zizi." 

In  the  evening  they  waited  for  "the  father" 
together,  and  while  she  worked  he  made  her 
shudder  with  the  story  of  his  travels. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you? 
You  're  not  the  same  as  you  used  to  be," 
Mamma  Delobelle  would  saj',  surprised  to  see  her 
in  such  high  spirits  and  abox'c  all  so  actix'e.  For 
instead  of  remaining  always  buried  in  her  easy-^ 
chair,  with  the  self-renunciation  of  a  young  grand- 
mother, the  little  creature  was  constantly  jumping 
up  and  running  to  the  window  as  lightl}'  as  if  she 
were  putting  out  wings  ;  and  she  practised  standing 
erect,  asking  her  mother  in  a  whisper: 


2  20  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  Do  you  notice  //,  when  I  am  not  walking?  " 

From  her  shapely  little  head,  upon  which  she 
had  previously  concentrated  all  her  energies  in  the 
arrangement  of  her  hair,  her  coquetry  extended 
over  her  whole  person,  as  did  her  fine  curly  tresses 
when  she  unloosed  them.  Yes,  she  was  very,  very 
coquettish  now;  and  everybody  noticed  it.  Even 
the  birds  and  insects  for  ornament  assumed  a 
knowing  little  air. 

Ah !  yes,  Desiree  Delobelle  was  happy.  For 
some  days  Monsieur  Frantz  had  been  talking  of 
their  all  going  into  the  country  together ;  and  as 
the  father,  kind  and  generous  as  always,  graciously 
consented  to  allow  the  ladies  to  take  a  day's  fur- 
lough, they  all  four  set  out  one  Sunday  morning. 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  what  a  beautiful  day 
it  was.  When  Desiree  opened  her  window  at  six 
o'clock,  when  she  saw  the  sun,  already  hot  and 
luminous,  shining  through  the  morning  haze,  when 
she  thought  of  the  trees,  the  fields,  the  roads,  of 
all  the  marvellous  splendors  of  nature,  which  she 
had  not  seen  for  so  long,  and  which  she  was  soon 
to  sec,  leaning  on  Frantz's  arm,  the  tears  came  to 
her  eyes.  The  church  bells  ringing,  the  noises  of 
Paris  already  ascending  from  the  streets,  the  Sun- 
day clothes  and  cleanliness  —  the  poor  man's  way 
of  celebrating  the  day  —  which  lighten  the  gloom 
of  even  the  little  chimney  sweep's  cheeks,  all  the 
accessories  of  the  dawning  of  that  memorable  day 
were  long  and  blissfully  revelled  in  by  her. 

The  evening  before,  Frantz  had  brought  her  a 
parasol,  a  little  parasol  with  an  ivory  handle ;  with 


Poor  Little  Manizelle  Zizi.  221 

the  aid  of  that  she  had  arranged  a  very  careful  but 
very  simple  toilet,  as  befits  a  poor  infirm  little 
creature  who  does  not  wish  to  attract  attention. 
And  it  is  stating  it  too  mildly  to  say  that  the  poor 
infirm  little  creature  was  charming. 

At  precisely  nine  o'clock  Frantz  arrived  in  a 
cab  hired  for  the  day,  and  went  upstairs  for  his 
guests.  Down  came  Mam'zelle  Zizi  coquettishly, 
unassisted,  supporting  herself  by  the  baluster, 
without  faltering.  Mamma  Delobelle  followed  be- 
hind, keeping  an  eye  upon  her;  and  the  illustrious 
actor,  his  topcoat  on  his  arm,  hurried  on  before 
with  young  Risler,  to  open  the  carriage  door. 

Oh  !  the  lovely  drive,  the  lovely  country,  the 
lovely  river,  the  lovely  trees  ! 

Do  not  ask  her  where  they  went;  Dcsiree  never 
knew.  But  she  will  tell  you  that  the  sun  was 
brighter  there  than  anywhere  else,  the  birds  more 
joyous,  the  woods  denser;   and  she  will  not  lie. 

When  she  was  a  little  child,  she  had  sometimes 
had  such  days  of  fresh  air  and  long  drives  in  the 
country.  But  later,  constant  toil,  poverty,  and  the 
sedentary  life  so  grateful  to  the  infirm,  had  kept 
her  nailed,  as  it  were,  to  the  old  quarter  of  Paris 
in  which  she  lived,  and  where  the  high  roofs,  the 
windows  with  iron  balconies,  the  factor}'  chimneys, 
making  with  their  new  bricks  red  streaks  against 
the  black  walls  of  historic  mansions,  had  formed 
an  unchanging  and  satisf}'ing  horizon  for  her  life. 
For  a  long  time  she  had  known  naught  of  flowers 
beyond  the  volubilis  at  her  window,  naught  of 
trees  beyond  the  acacias  in  the  Fromont  garden 


22  2  Fromont  and  Risler. 

of  which  she  caught  distant  ghmpses  through  the 
smoke. 

How  her  heart  swelled  with  joy,  therefore,  when 
she  found  herself  in  the  open  country !  Light  as 
air  with  all  her  pleasure  and  her  revivified  youth, 
she  went  from  surprise  to  surprise,  clapping  her 
hands  and  uttering  little  birdlike  cries ;  and  the 
impulsive  outbursts  of  her  artless  curiosity  con- 
cealed the  hesitation  of  her  gait.  Really  it  was 
not  too  noticeable.  Besides,  he  was  always  at 
hand,  ready  to  support  her,  to  give  her  his  hand 
across  the  ditches,  and  he  was  so  attentive,  the 
expression  of  his  eyes  so  tender  !  That  wonderful 
day  passed  like  a  vision.  The  great  blue  sky 
appearing  like  vapor  between  the  branches,  the 
long  line  of  underbrush  extending  to  the  foot  of 
the  first  trees  of  the  forest,  —  the  shadowy,  myste- 
rious forest,  where  the  flowers  grow  straighter  and 
taller,  where  the  golden  mosses  resemble  rays  of 
sunlight  on  the  trunks  of  the  oaks,  —  the  surprise 
caused  by  the  clearings  flooded  with  light,  — every- 
thing, even  to  the  weariness  following  a  day's  walk- 
ing in  the  open  air,  entranced  and  fascinated  her. 

Toward  evening,  when,  as  they  stood  on  the 
\'crge  of  the  forest,  she  saw — in  the  light  of  the  set- 
ling  sun —  the  dusty  roads  winding  among  the  fields, 
the  river  like  a  silver  thread,  and  over  yonder,  in 
the  space  between  two  hills,  a  mist  of  gray  roofs, 
weathercocks  and  cupolas  which  they  told  her  was 
Paris,  she  carried  away  at  a  glance,  in  a  corner 
of  her  memory,  that  whole  blooming  countryside, 
perfumed  with  love  and  with  June  hawthorn,  as  if 
she  were  never,  never  to  see  it  again. 


Poor  Little  Manizclle  Zizi.         223 

The  nosegay  that  the  little  cripple  brought  back 
from  that  beautiful  excursion  made  her  room  fra- 
grant for  a  week.  Among  the  hyacinths,  the  vio- 
lets, the  white-thorn,  there  were  a  multitude  of 
nameless  little  flowers,  those  flowers  of  the  lowly 
which  grow  from  nomadic  seed  scattered  cver}-- 
where  along  the  roads. 

Gazing  at  the  slender  pale  blue  and  bright  pink 
blossoms,  with  all  the  delicate  shades  that  flowers 
invented  before  colorists,  many  and  many  a  time 
during  that  week  Desirde  took  her  excursion  again. 
The  violets  reminded  her  of  the  little  moss-covered 
mound  on  which  she  had  picked  them,  seeking 
them  under  the  leaves,  her  fingers  touching  Frantz's. 
These  great  water-lilies  they  had  found  on  the  edge 
of  a  ditch,  still  damp  from  the  winter  rains,  and,  in 
order  to  reach  them,  she  had  leaned  very  heavily 
on  Frantz's  arm.  All  these  memories  recurred  to 
her  as  she  worked.  Meanwhile,  the  sun,  shining 
in  at  the  open  window,  made  the  feathers  of  the 
humming-birds  glisten.  The  springtime,  youth, 
the  songs  of  the  birds,  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers 
transfigured  that  dismal  fifth  floor  workroom,  and 
Desiree  said  in  all  seriousness  to  Mamma  Delo- 
belle,  putting  her  nose  to  her  friend's  bouquet: 

"  Have  you  noticed  how  sweet  the  flowers  smell 
this  year,  mamma?  " 

And  Frantz  too  began  to  fall  under  the  charm. 
Little  by  little,  Mam'zelle  Zizi  took  possession  of 
his  heart  and  banished  from  it  even  the  memory 
of  Sidonie.  To  be  sure  the  poor  judge  did  all  that 
he  could  to  accomplish  that  result.     At  ever)-  hour 


2  24  Fromont  and  Risler. 

in  the  day  he  was  by  Dcsiree's  side,  and  clung  to  her 
hke  a  child.  Not  once  did  he  venture  to  return  to 
Asnieres.     He  was  too  much  afraid  of  the  other. 

"  Pray  come  and  see  us  once  in  a  while ;  Sidonie 
keeps  asking  for  you,"  Risler  said  to  him  from 
time  to  time,  when  his  brother  came  to  the  factory 
to  see  him.  But  Frantz  held  firm,  alleging  all  sorts 
of  business  engagements  as  pretexts  for  postponing 
his  visit  to  the  next  day.  It  was  easy  to  satisfy 
Risler,  who  was  more  engrossed  than  ever  with  his 
press,  which  they  had  just  begun  to  build. 

Whenever  Frantz  came  down  from  his  brother's 
closet,  old  Sigismond  was  sure  to  be  watching  for 
him,  and  would  walk  a  few  steps  with  him  in  his 
long  lutestring  sleeves,  quill  and  knife  in  hand.  He 
kept  the  young  man  informed  concerning  matters 
at  the  factory.  For  some  time  past,  things  seemed 
to  have  changed  for  the  better.  Monsieur  Georges 
came  to  his  office  regularly,  and  returned  to  Savigny 
every  night.  No  more  bills  were  presented  at  the 
counting-room.  It  seemed  too  that  Madame  over 
yonder  was  keeping  more  within  bounds. 

The  cashier  was  triumphant. 

"  You  see,  my  boy,  whether  I  did  well  to  write 
to  you.  Your  arrival  was  all  that  was  needed  to 
straighten  everything  out.  And  yet,"  the  good- 
man  would  add  by  force  of  habit,  "  and  yet  /  haf 
no  gonfidcncd' 

"  Never  fear,  Monsieur  Sigismond,  I  am  here," 
the  judge  would  reply. 

"  You  're  not  going  away  yet,  are  you,  my  dear 
Frantz?" 


Poor  Little  I\Iar,izcllc  Zizi.         225 

"No,  no  —  not  yet.  I  have  an  important  matter 
to  finish  up  first." 

"  Ah  !   so  much  the  better." 

The  important  matter  to  which  Frantz  referred 
was  his  marriage  to  Desiree  Delobelle.  He  had 
not  yet  mentioned  it  to  any  one,  not  even  to  her; 
but  Mam'zelle  Zizi  must  have  suspected  something, 
for  she  became  prettier  and  more  Hght-hearted 
from  day  to  day,  as  if  she  foresaw  that  the  day 
would  soon  come  when  she  would  need  all  her 
gayety  and  all  her  beauty. 

They  were  alone  in  the  workroom  one  Sunday 
afternoon.  Mamma  Delobelle  had  gone  out,  proud 
enough  to  show  herself  for  once  in  public  with  her 
great  man,  and  leaving  friend  Frantz  with  her 
daughter  to  keep  her  company.  Carefully  dressed, 
his  whole  person  endued  with  a  holiday  air,  Frantz 
had  a  singular  expression  on  his  face  that  day,  an 
expression  at  once  timid  and  resolute,  emotional 
and  solemn,  and  simply  from  the  way  in  which  the 
little  low  chair  took  its  place  beside  the  great  easy 
chair,  the  easy  chair  understood  that  a  very  serious 
communication  was  about  to  be  made  to  it  in  con- 
fidence, and  it  had  some  little  suspicion  as  to  what 
it  might  be. 

The  conversation  began  with  divers  unimpor- 
tant remarks,  interspersed  with  long  and  frequent 
pauses,  just  as,  on  a  journey,  we  stop  at  every 
baiting-place  to  take  breath,  to  enable  us  to  reach 
our  destination. 

"  It  is  a  fine  day  to-day." 

•'  Oh  !  yes,  beautiful." 
'5 


2  20  Fro7no}it  aiid  Risler. 

"  Our  flowers  still  smell  sweet." 

"  Oh  !  very  sweet." 

And  even  as  they  uttered  those  trivial  sentences, 
their  voices  trembled  at  the  thought  of  what  was 
going  to  be  said  in  another  moment. 

At  last  the  little  low  chair  moved  a  little  nearer 
the  great  easy  chair ;  their  eyes  met,  their  fingers 
were  intertwined,  and  the  two  children,  in  low 
tones,  slowly,  called  each  other  by  their  names, 

"  Desiree  !  " 

"  Frantz !  " 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  the  soft  little  tap  of  a  daintily  gloved  hand 
which  fears  to  soil  itself  by  the  slightest  touch. 

"  Come  in  !  "  said  Desiree,  with  a  slight  gesture 
of  impatience ;  and  Sidonie  appeared,  lovely,  co- 
quettish and  affable.  She  had  come  to  sec  her 
little  Zizi,  to  embrace  her  as  she  was  passing  by. 
She  had  been  meaning  to  come  for  so  long. 

Frantz's  presence  seemed  to  surprise  her  greatly, 
and,  being  engrossed  by  her  delight  in  talking 
with  her  former  friend,  she  hardly  looked  at  him. 
After  the  effusive  greetings  and  caresses,  after  a 
pleasant  chat  over  old  times,  she  expressed  a  wish 
to  see  the  window  on  the  landing  and  the  room 
formerly  occupied  by  the  Rislers.  It  pleased  her 
thus  to  live  all  her  youth  over  again. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Frantz,  when  Princess 
Humming-bird  entered  your  room,  holding  her 
little  head  very  straight  under  a  diadem  of  birds' 
feathers?  " 

Frantz  did  not  reply.     He  was  too  deeply  moved 


Poor  Link  jMaiiizcilc  Zizi.  227 

to  reply.  Something  warned  him  that  it  was  on  his 
account,  solely  on  his  account,  that  the  woman  had 
come,  that  she  was  determined  to  see  him  again,  to 
prevent  him  from  giving  himself  to  another,  and  the 
poor  wretch  realized  with  dismay  that  she  would 
not  have  to  exert  herself  overmuch  to  accomplisli 
her  object.  When  he  saw  her  enter  the  room  his 
whole  heart  had  been  caught  in  the  toils  once  more. 

Desiree  suspected  nothing,  not  she.  Sidonie's 
manner  was  so  frank  and  friendly.  And  then, 
they  were  brother  and  sister  now.  Love  was  no 
longer  possible  between  them. 

But  the  little  cripple  had  a  vague  presentiment 
of  her  woe  when  Sidonic,  standing  in  the  doorway 
and  ready  to  go,  turned  carelessly  to  her  brother- 
in-law  and  said : 

"  By  the  way,  Frantz,  Risler  told  me  to  be  sure 
and  bring  you  back  to  dine  with  us  to-night.  The 
carriage  is  below.  We  \vill  pick  him  up  as  we 
pass  the  factory." 

Then  she  added,  with  the  prettiest  smile  imagi- 
nable : 

"You  will  let  us  have  him,  won't  you,  Ziree? 
Don't  be  afraid ;  we  will  send  him  back." 

And  he  had  the  courage  to  go,  the  ungrateful 
wretch  ! 

He  went  without  hesitation,  without  once  turn- 
ing back,  whirled  away  by  his  passion  as  by  a 
raging  sea,  and  neither  on  that  day  nor  the  next, 
nor  ever  after,  could  Mam'zelle  Zizi's  great  easy 
chair  learn  what  the  interesting  communication 
was  that  the  little  low  chair  had  to  make  to  it. 


228 


Fromont  and  Risler. 


IV. 


THE   WAITING   ROOM. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  more  than  ever 
and  forever  !  What  is  the  use  of  struggling  and  fighting 
against  fate  ?  Our  crime  is  stronger  than  we  are.  And 
after  all,  is  it  a  crime  for  us  to  love  ?  We  were  destined 
for  each  other.  Have  we  not  the  right  to  come  together 
although  life  has  parted  us  ?  So,  come.  It  is  all  over, 
we  will  go  away.  To-morrow  evening,  Lyon  station,  at 
ten  o'clock.  The  tickets  are  secured  and  I  shall  expect 
you.  "  Frantz." 


For  a  month  past  Sidonie  had  been  hoping  for 
that  letter,  a  month  during  which  she  had  brought 
all  her  wheedling  and  cunning  into  play  to  lure 
her  brother-in-law  on  to  that  written  explosion  of 
passion.  She  had  had  difficulty  in  accomplishing 
it.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to  pervert  an  honest 
young  heart  like  Frantz's  to  the  point  of  com- 
mitting a  crime ;  and  in  that  strange  contest,  in 
which  the  one  who  really  loved  fought  against  his 
own  cause,  she  had  often  felt  that  she  was  at  the 
end  of  her  strength  and  was  almost  discouraged. 
When  she  was  most  confident  that  he  was  sub- 
jugated, his  sense  of  right  would  suddenly  rebel, 


The   Waiting  Room.  229 

and  he  would  be  all  ready  to  fly,  to  escape  her 
once  more. 

What  a  triumph  it  was  for  her,  therefore,  when 
that  letter  was  handed  to  her  one  morning. 
Madame  Dobson  happened  to  be  there.  She 
had  just  arrived,  laden  with  complaints  from 
Georges,  who  was  horribly  bored  away  from  his 
mistress,  and  was  beginning  to  be  alarmed  con- 
cerning this  brother-in-law,  who  was  more  atten- 
tive, more  jealous,  more  exacting  than  a  husband. 

"  Oh  !  the  poor  dear  fellow,  the  poor  dear  fel- 
low," said  the  sentimental  American,  "  if  you 
could  see  how  unhappy  he  is  !  " 

And,  shaking  her  curls,  she  unrolled  her  music- 
roll  and  took  from  it  the  poor  dear  fellow's  letters, 
which  she  had  carefully  hidden  between  the  leaves 
of  her  arias,  delighted  to  be  involved  in  this  love- 
story,  to  give  rein  to  her  emotion  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  intrigue  and  mystery  which  melted  her 
cold  e}'es  and  softened  her  dry,  white  complexion. 

Strange  to  say,  while  lending  her  aid  most  will- 
ingly to  this  constant  going  and  coming  of  love- 
letters,  the  youthful  and  attractive  Dobson  had 
never  written  or  received  a  single  one  on  her 
own  account. 

Always  on  the  road  between  Asnieres  and  Paris 
with  an  amorous  message  under  her  wing,  that 
curious  carrier-pigeon  remained  true  to  her  dove- 
cot and  cooed  for  none  but  unselfish  motives. 

When  Sidonie  showed  her  Frantz's  note,  Ma- 
dame Dobson  asked : 

"What  reply  are  you  going  to  make?" 


230  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  It  is  already  done.     I  answered  yes." 

"  What !  You  will  go  away  with  that  mad- 
man?" 

Sidonie  began  to  laugh. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  well,  hardly.  I  said  yes,  so  that  he 
may  go  and  wait  for  me  at  the  station.  That 's 
all.  The  least  I  can  do  is  to  give  him  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  of  agony.  He  has  made  me  miserable 
enough  for  the  last  month.  Just  consider  that  I 
have  changed  my  whole  life  for  my  gentleman  ! 
I  have  had  to  close  my  doors  and  give  up  seeing 
my  friends  and  everybody  I  know  who  is  young 
and  agreeable,  beginning  with  Georges  and  ending 
with  you.  For  you  know,  my  dear,  you  were  n't 
agreeable  to  him,  and  he  would  have  liked  to  dis- 
miss you  like  the  rest." 

The  one  thing  that  Sidonie  did  not  mention  —  and 
it  was  the  most  potent  cause  of  her  anger  against 
Frantz  —  was  that  he  had  frightened  her,  that  he  had 
frightened  her  terribly  by  threatening  her  with  her 
husband.  From  that  moment  she  had  felt  decid- 
edly ill  at  ease,  and  her  life,  her  dear  life,  which 
she  so  petted  and  coddled,  had  seemed  to  her  to  be 
exposed  to  serious  danger.  Such  men  as  Risler, 
too  fair  and  cold  in  appearance,  are  subject  to  ter- 
rible outbursts  of  wrath,  white-hot  wrath,  of  which 
no  one  can  foresee  the  results,  like  those  colorless 
and  odorless  explosives  which  we  fear  to  use 
because  no  one  knows  their  power.  Yes,  the 
thought  that  her  husband  might  some  day  be 
apprized  of  her  conduct  positively  terrified  her. 

There    came    to    her    mind,    from    her    former 


The   Waitiiic  Room 


<!> 


2;i 


existence,  a  wretched  existence  in  a  crowded 
quarter,  memories  of  households  broken  up,  hus- 
bands avenged,  blood  spattered  upon  the  shame 
of  adultery.  Visions  of  death  haunted  her.  And 
death,  everlasting  rest,  profound  silence,  were  well 
calculated  to  frighten  that  little  creature,  hungry 
for  pleasure,  eager  for  noise  and  commotion  to  the 
point  of  madness. 

That  blessed  letter  put  an  end  to  all  her  fears. 
It  was  impossible  now  for  Frantz  to  denounce  her, 
even  in  the  frenzy  of  his  disappointment,  knowing 
that  she  had  such  a  weapon  in  her  hands ;  and  if 
he  did  speak,  she  would  show  the  letter,  and  all 
his  accusations  would  become  in  Risler's  eyes 
calumny  pure  and  simple.  Ah  !  master  judge,  we 
have  you  now. 

Suddenly  she  was  seized  with  an  outbreak  of 
wild  joy. 

"  I  am  born  again  —  I  am  born  again  !  "  she 
cried  to  Madame  Dobson.  ShG  ran  out  into  the 
garden,  gathered  great  bouquets  for  her  salon, 
threw  the  windows  wide  open  to  the  sunlight,  gave 
orders  to  the  cook,  the  coachman,  the  gardener. 
The  house  must  be  made  to  look  beautiful,  for 
Georges  was  coming  back,  and  for  a  beginning 
she  organized  a  grand  dinner-party  for  the  end  of 
the  week.  Verily  you  would  have  said  that  she 
had  been  absent  a  month,  that  she  had  just 
returned  from  an  annoying,  wearisome  journey  on 
business,  she  showed  such  haste  in  re-establishing 
life  and  activity  about  her. 

The  next  evening  Sidonie,  Risler  and  Madame 


232  Froinout  and  Rislcr. 

Dobson  were  together  in  the  salon.  While  honest 
Rislcr  turned  the  leaves  of  an  old  hand-book  of 
mechanics,  Sidonie  sang  to  Madame  Dobson's 
accompaniment.  Suddenly  Sidonie  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  her  aria  and  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 
The  clock  had  just  struck  ten. 

Rislcr  looked  up  quickly. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at?  " 

"Nothing  —  an  idea  that  came  into  my  head," 
replied  Sidonie,  winking  at  Madame  Dobson  and 
pointing  at  the  clock. 

It  was  the  hour  appointed  for  the  meeting,  and 
she  was  thinking  of  her  lover's  torture  as  he  waited 
for  her  to  come. 

Since  the  return  of  the  messenger  bringing  from 
Sidonie  the  "  yes  "  he  had  so  feverishly  awaited,  a 
great  calmness  had  overspread  his  troubled  mind, 
like  the  sudden  removal  of  a  heavy  burden.  No 
more  uncertainty,  no  more  clashing  between  passion 
and  duty.  He  had  an  instantaneous  feeling  of 
relief,  as  if  he  no  longer  had  a  conscience.  He 
made  his  preparations  with  the  greatest  tranquillity, 
pulled  his  trunks  on  to  the  floor,  emptied  the 
bureau  and  closets,  and  long  before  the  time  at 
which  his  luggage  was  to  be  called  for,  he  was 
sitting  on  a  trunk  in  the  middle  of  his  room,  gazing 
at  the  map  nailed  to  the  wall  in  front  of  him,  like 
an  emblem  of  his  wandering  life,  following  with 
his  eye  the  straight  course  of  the  roads  and  the 
wavy  lines  that  represent  the  seas. 

Not  once  did  it  occur  to  him  that  on  the  other 


TJic   IVaiuiig  Rouin.  233 

side  of  the  landing  someone  was  weeping  and 
sighing  because  of  him.  Not  once  did  he  think  of 
his  brother's  despair,  of  the  ghastly  drama  they 
were  to  leave  behind  them.  His  mind  was  far 
away  from  all  these  matters,  it  had  gone  on  before, 
and  was  already  on  the  platform  of  the  station  with 
Sidonie,  in  dark  clothes  suitable  for  travel  and  for 
flight:  ay,  even  farther  away,  on  the  shore  of  the 
blue  sea,  where  they  would  stay  some  little  time  to 
evade  pursuit;  still  farther  away,  arriving  with  her 
in  a  strange  land,  where  no  one  could  demand  her 
or  take  her  from  him.  At  other  times,  he  thought 
of  the  railway  carriage  rushing  at  night  through 
the  lonely  country.  He  saw  a  sweet  little  pale 
face  resting  beside  his  on  the  cushions,  a  blooming 
lip  within  reach  of  his  lip,  and  two  fathomless  e}'es 
looking  at  him  by  the  soft  light  of  the  lamp,  to  the 
soothing  accompaniment  of  the  wheels  and  the 
steam. 

And  now,  engine,  hiss  and  roar.  Shake  the 
earth,  redden  the  sky,  spit  smoke  and  flame. 
Plunge  into  tunnels,  cross  mountains  and  rivers,  leap, 
belch,  shriek;  but  take  us  with  you,  take  us  far 
from  the  cixilized  world,  its  laws,  its  affections, 
away  from  life,  away  from  ourselves. 

Two  hours  before  the  opening  of  the  gate  for 
the  designated  train,  I'Vantz  was  already  at  the 
Lyon  station,  that  gloomy  station  which,  in  the 
distant  quarter  of  Paris  in  which  it  lies,  seems  like 
a  first  halting-place  in  the  provinces.  He  sat 
down  in  the  darkest  corner  and  remained   there 


2  34  Froinont  and  Rhlcr. 

without  stirring,  as  if  dazed.  At  that  moment  his 
brain  was  as  excited  and  uproarious  as  the  station 
itself.  He  was  overwhelmed  by  a  flood  of  confused 
reflections,  vague  memories,  fanciful  comparisons. 
In  a  single  minute  he  made  such  journeys  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  his  memory  that  he  asked  him- 
self two  or  three  times  why  he  was  there,  and  what 
he  was  waiting  for.  But  the  thought  of  Sidonie 
gushed  forth  from  those  inconsequent  thoughts 
and  illumined  them  with  a  bright  light. 

She  was  coming. 

Instinctively,  although  the  appointed  hour  was 
still  distant,  he  looked  among  the  people  who  were 
hurrying  along,  calling  to  one  another,  to  see  if  he 
could  not  discern  that  graceful  figure  suddenly 
emerging  from  the  crowd  and  thrusting  it  aside  at 
every  step  with  the  radiance  of  her  beauty. 

After  many  departures  and  arrivals  and  shrill 
whistles  which,  confined  beneath  the  arched  roof, 
resembled  a  sound  of  tearing,  the  station  suddenly 
became  empty,  as  deserted  as  a  church  on  weekdays. 
The  time  for  the  ten  o'clock  train  was  drawing  near. 
There  was  no  other  train  before  that.    Frantz  rose. 

Now  it  was  no  longer  a  dream,  a  chimera  lost  in 
that  vast  uncertain  expanse  of  time.  In  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  half  an  hour  at  the  latest,  she  would  be 
there. 

Thereupon  began  for  him  the  horrible  torture  of 
suspense,  that  strange  plight  of  body  and  mind 
when  all  the  faculties  are  in  abeyance,  when  the 
heart  no  longer  beats,  when  the  breath  is  hurried 
and  panting  like  the  thought,  when  gestures  and 


TJie    Walling  Room.  235 

sentences  arc  left  unfinished,  when  evcr)-thing  is 
waiting.  Poets  have  described  again  and  again 
the  horrible  agony  of  the  lover  listening  to  the 
rumbling  of  a  carriage  through  the  deserted  street, 
a  furtive  step  ascending  the  stairs. 

But  to  await  one's  mistress  in  a  railway  station, 
in  a  waiting-room,  is  a  far  more  dismal  matter. 
The  dim  lanterns,  making  no  reflection  on  the 
dusty  floor,  the  great  windows  and  glass  doors,  the 
incessant  noise  of  footsteps  and  slamming  doors 
which  torments  the  anxious  ear,  the  bare,  lofty 
walls,  the  placards  advertising  "  an  excursion  train 
to  Monaco,"  "  a  circular  tour  in  Switzerland,"  the 
atmosphere  of  travel,  of  change,  of  indifference,  of 
instability,  all  are  well  adapted  to  oppress  the  heart 
and  heighten  its  anguish. 

Frantz  went  hither  and  thither,  watching  the 
carriages  that  arrived.  They  stopped  at  the  long 
flight  of  stone  steps.  The  carriage  doors  opened 
and  closed  noisily,  and  from  the  darkness  without, 
faces  appeared  at  the  door  in  the  light,  faces 
tranquil  or  disturbed,  happy  or  distressed,  hats 
trimmed  with  feathers  and  enveloped  in  light  veils, 
peasants'  caps,  sleeping  children  dragged  along  by 
the  hand.  Each  new  arrival  made  him  start.  He 
fancied  that  he  saw  her  enter,  closely  veiled,  hesi- 
tating, a  little  embarrassed.  How  quickly  he 
would  be  by  her  side,  to  comfort  her,  to  protect 
her ! 

As  the  station  filled,  his  watch  became  more 
difficult.  Carriages  succeeded  one  another  with- 
out intermi.ssion.     He  was  obliged  to  run  from  one 


236  Froviout  and  Risler. 

door  to  another.  Then  he  went  out,  thinking  that 
he  could  see  better  outside,  and  unable  to  endure 
longer,  in  the  stifling  air  of  the  crowded  waiting- 
room,  the  anxiety  that  was  beginning  to  oppress 
him. 

It  was  a  damp  evening  toward  the  end  of  Sep- 
tember. There  was  a  light  mist,  and  the  lanterns 
of  the  carriages  at  the  foot  of  the  broad  inclined 
footway,  appeared  faint  and  indistinct.  Each  one, 
on  arriving,  seemed  to  say:  "It  is  I,  —  here  I  am." 
But  it  was  never  Sidonie  who  alighted,  and  the 
carriage  he  had  watched  as  it  drew  near,  his  heart 
swelling  with  hope  as  if  it  contained  more  than 
his  life,  he  watched  as  it  returned  to  Paris,  disgust- 
ingly light  and  empty. 

The  hour  for  the  departure  of  the  train  was 
approaching.  He  looked  at  the  clock.  There 
was  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  more.  It  frightened 
him ;  but  the  bell  at  the  wicket,  which  had  now 
been  opened,  summoned  him.  He  ran  thither  and 
took  his  place  in  the  long  line. 

"  Two  first-class  for  Marseille,"  he  said.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  that  were  equivalent  to 
taking  possession. 

He  made  his  way  back  to  his  post  of  observa- 
tion, through  the  luggage-laden  trucks  and  the 
late-comers  who  jostled  him  as  they  ran.  The 
drivers  shouted  :  "  Look  out !  "  He  stood  there 
among  the  wheels  of  the  cabs,  under  the  horses' 
feet,  with  deaf  ears  and  staring  eyes.  Only  five 
minutes  more.  It  was  almost  impossible  for  her 
to  arrive  in   time.     People  were  rushing  into  the 


The   Waiting  Rooni.  237 

train-shed.  Trunks  rolled  by  on  baggage  trucks; 
and  the  great  bundles  wrapped  in  cloth,  the  valises 
studded  with  copper  nails,  the  little  bags  slung 
over  the  shoulders  of  commercial  travellers,  the 
baskets  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  were  engulfed  by 
the  same  doorway,  jostled  and  swaying  with  the 
same  haste. 

At  last  she  appeared. 

Yes,  there  she  is,  it  is  certainly  she  —  a  woman 
in  black,  slender  and  graceful,  accompanied  by 
another  shorter  woman,  Madame  Dobson,  no 
doubt. 

But  a  second  glance  undeceived  him.  It  was 
a  young  woman  who  resembled  her,  a  woman  of 
fashion  like  her,  with  a  happy  face.  A  man,  also 
young,  joined  them.  It  was  evidently  a  wedding- 
party  ;  the  mother  accompanied  them,  to  see  them 
safely  on  board  the  train.  They  passed  Frantz, 
enveloped  in  the  current  of  happiness  that  bore 
them  along.  With  a  feeling  of  envy  and  rage  he 
saw  them  pass  through  the  swinging  doors,  cling- 
ing to  each  other,  united  and  pressed  close  to- 
gether in  the  crowd. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  those  people  had  robbed 
him,  that  it  was  his  place,  his  and  Sidonie's,  that 
they  were  to  occupy  in  the  train. 

Now  there  is  the  confusion  of  departure,  the  last 
stroke  of  the  bell,  the  steam  escaping  with  a  hiss- 
ing sound,  mingled  with  the  hurried  footsteps  of 
belated  passengers,  the  slamming  of  doors  and  the 
rumbling  of  the  heavy  omnibuses.  And  Sidonie 
comes  not.     And  Frantz  still  waits. 


238  Fro}no}it  and  Rislcr. 

At  that  moment  a  hand  is  placed  on  his  shoulder. 

Great  God  ! 

He  turns.  Monsieur  Gardinois's  coarse  face, 
surrounded  by  a  travelling  cap  with  ear  pieces,  is 
before  him. 

"  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  is  Monsieur  Risler.  Are 
you  going  to  Marseille  by  the  express?  I  am  not 
going  far." 

He  explains  to  Frantz  that  he  has  missed  the 
Orleans  train,  and  is  going  to  try  to  connect  with 
Savigny  by  the  Lyon  line ;  then  he  talks  about 
Risler  Aine  and  the  factory. 

"  It  seems  that  business  has  n't  been  prospering 
for  some  time.  They  were  caught  in  the  Bon- 
nardel  failure.  Ah  !  our  young  men  need  to  be 
careful.  At  the  rate  they're  sailing  their  ship,  the 
same  thing  is  likely  to  happen  to  them  that  hap- 
pened to  Bonnardel.  But  excuse  me,  I  believe 
they  're  going  to  close  the  gate.      An  revoir." 

Frantz  has  hardly  heard  what  he  has  been  say- 
ing. His  brother's  ruin,  the  destruction  of  the 
whole  world,  nothing  is  of  any  further  consequence 
to  him.     He  is  waiting,  waiting. 

But  now  the  gate  is  abruptly  closed  like  a  last 
barrier  between  him  and  his  persistent  hope. 
Once  more  the  station  is  empty.  The  uproar  has 
been  transferred  to  the  line  of  the  railway,  and 
suddenly  a  shrill  whistle  falls  upon  the  lover's  ear 
like  an  ironical  farewell,  then  dies  away  in  the 
darkness. 

The  ten  o'clock  train  has  gone. 

He  tries  to  be  calm  and  to  reason.     Evidently 


The   Wait  in  Q:  Room.  239 

she  missed  the  train  from  Asnieres;  but,  knowing 
that  lie  is  waiting  for  her,  she  will  come,  no  matter 
how  late  it  may  be.  He  will  wait  on.  The  waiting- 
room  was  made  for  that. 

The  unhapp)'  man  sits  down  on  a  bench.  The 
great  windows  have  been  closed,  and  the  darkness 
beyond  them  is  broken  by  gleams  of  glazed 
paper.  The  book-stall  keeper,  half  asleep,  is  en- 
gaged in  setting  his  stock  in  order.  Frantz  glances 
mechanically  at  the  rows  of  gaudy  volumes,  the 
typical  raihvay  librar}',  whose  titles  he  has  learned 
by  heart  in  the  four  hours  he  has  been  there. 

There  are  books  that  he  recognizes  from  having 
read  them  in  his  tent  at  Ismailia  or  in  the  steamer 
that  brought  him  back  from  Suez,  and  all  those 
commonplace,  tri\'ial  novels  have  retained  a  ma- 
rine or  exotic  odor  for  him.  But  soon  the  book- 
stall is  closed,  and  he  no  longer  has  even  that 
resource  to  deceive  his  weariness  and  his  fever. 
The  toy-stall,  too,  has  withdrawn  behind  its  board 
shutters.  Whistles,  wheelbarrows,  watering-pots, 
spades,  rakes,  all  the  playthings  of  little  Parisians 
in  the  countr}',  disappear  in  a  twinkling.  The  pro- 
prietress, a  sickly,  sad-faced  w'oman,  wraps  herself 
in  an  old  cloak  and  goes  away,  her  foot-warmer  in 
her  hand. 

All  these  people  have  finished  their  day's  work, 
have  prolonged  it  to  the  last  minute  with  the  cou- 
rage and  obstinac}'  characteristic  of  Paris,  which 
does  not  extinguish   its  lamps  until  daylight. 

The  prospect  of  a  long  vigil  brings  to  his  mind 
a  well  known  room  in  w'hich  at  that  hour  the  lamp 


240  From  out  and  R  icier. 

burns  low  on  a  table  laden  with  humming-birds 
and  glow-worms ;  but  that  vision  passes  swiftly 
through  his  mind  in  the  chaos  of  confused  thoughts 
to  which  the  delirium  of  suspense  gives  birth. 

Suddenly  he  discovers  that  he  is  dying  wii.h 
thirst.  The  restaurant  is  still  open.  He  enters. 
The  night  waiters  are  dozing  on  the  benches.  The 
floor  is  damp  with  the  dregs  from  the  glasses.  It 
takes  them  an  interminable  time  to  wait  upon  him ; 
and  then,  just  as  he  is  about  to  drink,  the  thought 
that  Sidonie  may  have  arrived  during  his  absence, 
that  perhaps  she  is  looking  for  him  in  the  waiting- 
room,  makes  him  jump  to  his  feet  and  rush  out 
like  a  madman,  leaving  his  glass  full  and  his  money 
on  the  table. 

She  will  not  come. 

He  feels  it. 

His  footsteps,  ringing  along  the  walk  in  front  ot 
the  station,  monotonous  and  regular,  grate  upon 
his  ears,  as  if  they  were  testifying  to  his  solitude 
and  disappointment. 

What  has  happened  ?  What  can  have  detained 
her?  Is  she  ill,  or  was  it  the  anticipation  of  re- 
morse for  her  sin?  But  in  that  case  she  would 
have  sent  him  word,  she  would  have  sent  Madame 
Dobson.  Perhaps  Risler  had  found  the  letter? 
She  was  so  reckless,  so  imprudent. 

And  while  he  thus  lost  himself  in  conjectures, 
the  hours  passed.  The  roofs  of  the  buildings  of 
Mazas,  buried  in  darkness,  were  already  begin- 
ning to  stand  out  distinctly  against  the  brighten- 
ing sky.     What  was  he  to  do?     He  must   go  to 


The    IVai/ijiq^  Room.  241 

Asnicres  at  once  and  tr}^  to  find  out  what  had 
happened.     He  wished  he  were  there  already. 

Having  made  up  his  mind,  he  descended  the 
steps  of  the  station  at  a  rapid  pace,  passing  soldiers 
with  their  knapsacks  on  their  backs,  and  poor 
people  coming  to  take  the  morning  train,  the  train 
of  the  poverty  and  want  which  rise  betimes. 

He  crossed  Paris  at  daybreak,  a  dismal,  shivering 
Paris,  where  the  lanterns  on  the  police  stations 
showed  their  red  lights  at  intervals,  and  the  police- 
men walked  their  beats  two  by  two,  stopping  at  the 
street  corners  and  scrutinizing  the  shadows. 

In  front  of  one  of  the  stations  he  saw  a  crowd 
collected,  ragpickers  and  countrywomen.  Doubt- 
less some  drama  of  the  night  about  to  reach  its 
d^noiluiciit  before  the  commissioner  of  police.  — 
Ah !  if  Frantz  had  known  what  that  drama  was ! 
but  he  could  have  no  suspicion,  and  he  glanced  at 
the  crowd  indifferently  from  a  distance. 

But  all  such  unpleasant  sights,  the  very  dawn 
rising  over  Paris  with  the  pallor  of  weariness,  the 
lanterns  blinking  on  the  bank  of  the  Seine,  like 
the  wax  tapers  around  a  corpse,  the  exhaustion  of 
his  sleepless  night,  enveloped  him  in  profound 
melancholy. 

When  he  reached  Asnicres,  after  a  walk  of  two 
or  three  hours,  it  was  like  an  awakening. 

The  sun,  rising  in  all  its  glory,  set  field  and 
river  on  fire.  The  bridge,  the  houses,  the  quay, 
all  stood  forth  with  that  matutinal  sharpness  of 
outline  which  gives  the  impression  of  a  new  day 
emerging,  luminous  and  smiling,  from  the  dense 
16 


242  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

mists  of  the  night.  From  a  distance  he  descried 
his  brother's  house,  ah'eady  awake,  the  open  bhnds 
and  the  flowers  on  the  window-siUs.  He  wandered 
about  some-  time  before  he  could  summon  courage 
to  enter. 

Suddenly  some  one  hailed  him  from  the  shore: 

"  Ah  !  Monsieur  Frantz.  —  How  early  you  are 
to-day !  " 

It  was  Sidonie's  coachman  taking  his  horses  to 
bathe  in  the  river. 

"  There  's  nothing  new  at  the  house?  "  inquired 
Frantz  tremblingly. 

"  Nothing  new,  Monsieur  Frantz." 

"  Is  my  brother  at  home?  " 

"  No,  Monsieur  slept  at  the  factory." 

"  No  one  sick?  " 

"  No,  Monsieur  Frantz,  no  one,  so  far  as  I  know." 

The  horses  waded  into  the  water  up  to  their 
breasts,  tossing  the  spray  about. 

Thereupon  Frantz  made  up  his  mind  to  ring  at 
the  small  gate. 

The  gardener  was  raking  the  paths.  The  house 
was  astir;  and,  early  as  it  was,  he  heard  Sidonie's 
voice  as  clear  and  vibrating  as  the  song  of  a  bird 
among  the  rosebushes  of  the  facade. 

She  was  talking  with  animation. 

Frantz,  deeply  moved,  drew  near  to  listen. 

"  No,  no  cream.  The  cafe  parfait  will  be 
enough.  Be  sure  that  it 's  well  frozen  and  ready 
at  seven  o'clock.  —  Oh  !  about  an  entree  —  let  us 
see  —  " 

She  was  holding  council  with  her  cook  concern- 


Tlic   Waiiiug  Room.  243 

ing  the  famous  dinner-party  for  the  next  clay.  Her 
brother-in-law's  sudden  appearance  did  not  dis- 
concert  her. 

"  Ah !  good-morning,  Frantz,"  she  said  very 
calmly,  "  I  am  at  your  service  directly.  We  're 
to  have  some  people  to  dinner  to-morrow,  cus- 
tomers of  the  firm,  a  grand  business  dinner.  You  '11 
excuse  me,  won't  you?" 

Fresh  and  smiling,  in  the  white  ruffles  of  her 
trailing  peignoir  and  her  little  lace  cap,  she  con- 
tinued to  discuss  her  menu,  inhaling  the  cool  air 
that  rose  from  the  fields  and  the  river.  There  was 
not  the  slightest  trace  of  chagrin  or  anxiety  upon 
that  tranquil  face.  Her  smooth  forehead,  the 
charming  naive  expression  of  surprise,  which  was 
likely  to  keep  her  young  so  long,  her  pink  lips, 
slightly  parted,  were  in  striking  contrast  with  the 
lover's  features,  distorted  by  a  night  of  agony  and 
fatigue. 

For  a  long  quarter  of  an  hour  Frantz,  sitting  in 
a  corner  of  the  salon,  saw  all  the  conventional 
dishes  of  a  bourgeois  dinner-party  pass  before  him 
in  their  regular  order,  from  the  little  hot  pate's, 
the  sole  Normande  and  the  innumerable  ingredients 
of  which  that  dish  is  composed,  to  the  Montreuil 
peaches  and  Fontainebleau  grapes.  She  did  not 
spare  him  a  single  cntrentct. 

At  last,  when  they  were  alone  and  he  was  able 
to" speak,  he  asked  in  a  hollow  voice: 

"  Did  n't  you  receive  my  letter?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course." 

She  had  risen  to  go  to  the  mirror  and  adjust  a 


244  Froniont  and  Risler. 

little  curl  or  two  entangled  with  her  floating 
ribbons,  and  continued,  looking  at  herself  all  the 
while: 

'*  Why,  yes,  I  received  your  letter.  Indeed,  I 
was  enchanted  to  receive  it.  —  Now,  if  you  should 
ever  feel  inclined  to  tell  your  brother  any  of  the 
vile  stories  about  me  that  you  have  threatened  me 
with,  I  could  easily  satisfy  him  that  the  only  source 
of  your  lying  tale-bearing  was  anger  with  me  for 
repulsing  a  criminal  passion  as  it  deserved.  Con- 
sider yourself  warned,  my  dear  boy  —  and  mi 
revoir." 

As  pleased  as  an  actress  who  has  just  completed 
a  bit  of  declamation  with  fine  effect,  she  passed 
him  and  left  the  salon  smiling,  with  a  little  curl  at 
the  corners  of  her  mouth,  triumphant  and  without 
anger. 

And  he  did  not  kill  her ! 


A  News  licm.  245 


V. 

A  NEWS   ITEM. 

On  the  evening  preceding  that  ill-omened  day,  a 
few  moments  after  Frantz  had  stealthily  left  his 
room  on  Rue  de  Braque,  the  illustrious  Delobelle 
returned  home,  with  downcast  face  and  that  air  of 
lassitude  and  disillusionment  with  which  he  always 
met  untoward  events. 

"  Oh !  mon  Dieii,  my  poor  man,  what  has  hap- 
pened?" instantly  inquired  Madame  Delobelle, 
whom  twenty  years  of  exaggerated  dramatic  pan- 
tomime had  not  yet  surfeited. 

Before  replying,  the  ex-actor,  who  never  failed 
to  precede  his  most  trivial  words  with  some  facial 
play,  learned  long  before  for  stage  purposes, 
dropped  his  lower  lip  in  token  of  disgust  and 
loathing,  as  if  he  had  just  swallowed  something 
very  bitter. 

"  The  matter  is  that  those  Rislers  are  certainly 
ingrates  or  egotists,  and,  beyond  all  question, 
exceedingly  ill-bred.  Do  you  know  what  I  just 
learned  downstairs  from  the  concierge,  who  glanced 
at  me  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  making  sport 
of  me?  Well,  Frantz  Rislcr  has  gone!  He  left 
the   house  a  short    time  ago,   and    has   left    Paris 


246  Froviojit  a)id  Risler. 

perhaps  ere  this,  without  so  much  as  coming  to 
shake  my  hand,  to  tliank  me  for  the  welcome 
he  has  received  here.  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  For  he  didn't  say  good-bye  to  you  two 
either,  did  he?  And  yet,  only  a  month  ago,  he 
was  always  in  our  rooms,  without  any  remonstrance 
from  us." 

Mamma  Delobelle  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
genuine  surprise  and  grief.  Desiree,  on  the  con- 
trary, did  not  say  a  word  or  make  a  motion. 
Always  the  same  little  iceberg.  The  wire  she 
was  twisting  did  not  even  pause  in  her  active 
fingers. 

"  So  much  for  having  friends,"  continued  the 
illustrious  Delobelle.  "  In  God's  name,  what  have 
I  done  to  that  fellow?" 

It  was  one  of  his  whims  to  fancy  that  he  was 
pursued  by  the  hatred  of  the  whole  world.  That 
was  a  part  of  the  attitude  in  life  assumed  by  him, 
the  crucified  of  art. 

Gently,  with  almost  maternal  tenderness,  —  for 
there  is  always  something  of  the  maternal  feeling 
in  the  indulgent,  forgiving  affection  that  such 
great  children  inspire,  —  Mamma  Delobelle  con- 
soled her  husband,  coaxed  him,  and  added  a 
dainty  dish  to  his  dinner.  In  his  heart  the  poor 
devil  was  really  affected  ;  now  that  Frantz  had 
gone,  the  role  of  perpetual  host,  formerly  played 
by  the  elder  Risler,  was  vacant  once  more,  and 
the  actor  was  thinking  of  the  comforts  he  should 
miss. 


A  News  Item.  247 

And  to  think  that,  by  the  side  of  that  selfish, 
superficial  chagrin,  there  was  a  genuine,  far-reach- 
ing sorrow,  the  sorrow  that  kills,  and  that  that 
blinded  mother  did  not  discover  it.  Oh  !  wretched 
woman,  turn  your  eyes  upon  your  daughter.  See 
that  transparent  pallor,  those  tearless  eyes  which 
gleam  unwaveringly,  as  if  their  thoughts  and 
their  gaze  were  concentrated  on  some  object 
visible  to  them  alone.  Cause  that  poor  suffer- 
ing heart  to  open  itself  to  you.  Question  your 
child.  Make  her  speak,  above  all  things  make 
her  weep,  to  rid  her  of  the  burden  that  is  sti- 
fling her,  so  that  her  tear-dimmed  eyes  can  no 
longer  distinguish  in  space  that  horrible  unknown 
thing  upon  which  they  are  fixed  in  desperation 
now. 

Alas! 

There  arc  women  in  whom  the  mother  kills 
the  wife.  In  that  woman  the  wife  had  killed  the 
mother.  A  priestess  of  the  god  Delobelle,  ab- 
sorbed in  contemplation  of  her  idol,  she  fancied 
that  her  daughter  had  come  into  the  world  solely 
to  devote  herself  to  the  same  worship,  to  kneel  at 
the  same  altar.  Both  of  them  should  have  but  a 
single  aim  in  life,  to  toil  for  the  great  man's  glor}-, 
to  console  his  unappreciated  genius.  The  rest  of 
the  world  had  no  existence.  Mamma  Delobelle 
had  never  noticed  Desiree's  quick  flush  as  soon 
as  Frantz  entered  the  workroom,  all  the  circum- 
locutions of  a  love-lorn  maiden  to  which  she 
resorted  to  lead  the  conversation  to  him,  to  bring 


248  Frornont  and  Risler. 

his  name  on  every  occasion  into  their  chatting 
over  their  work,  and  that,  too,  for  many  years, 
since  the  time,  now  far  distant,  when  Frantz  used 
to  start  for  the  Ecole  Centrale  in  the  morning 
just  as  the  two  women  Hghted  their  lamp  to  be- 
gin their  day's  work.  She  had  never  sought  the 
meaning  of  those  long  silences  in  which  trusting 
and  happy  youth  securely  locks  itself  with  its 
dreams  of  the  future ;  and  if  she  sometimes 
said  to  Desiree,  when  her  silence  annoyed  her : 
"  What 's  the  matter  with  you  ? "  the  girl  had 
only  to  reply:  "Nothing,"  to  send  her  mother's 
thoughts,  turned  aside  for  a  moment,  back  at  once 
to  their  favorite  preoccupation. 

Thus  this  woman,  who  could  read  what  was 
written  in  her  husband's  heart  in  the  faintest 
wrinkle  of  that  Olympian  but  insignificant  brow, 
had  never  shown  for  her  poor  Zizi  that  power  of 
divination  in  which  the  oldest  and  most  wrinkled 
mothers  make  themselves  young  again,  even  to 
the  point  of  counterfeiting  a  girlish  friendship,  in 
order  to  become  confidants  and  advisers. 

And  therein  consists  the  most  inhuman  feature 
of  the  unconscious  egotism  of  men  like  Delobelle. 

It  gives  birth  to  other  egotisms  in  its  neighbor- 
hood. 

The  habit  that  prevails  in  certain  families  of 
considering  everything  in  its  relation  to  a  single 
person,  necessarily  leaves  in  the  shade  the  joys 
and  sorrows  which  are  indifferent  and  unprofit- 
able to  him. 


A  News  Item.  249 

And  in  what  way,  I  ask  you,  could  the  pitiful 
boy-and-girl  drama  which  caused  the  poor  loving 
creature's  heart  to  be  swollen  to  bursting  with  un- 
shed tears,  concern  the  glory  of  the  great  actor? 

She  was  suffering  terribly,  none  the  less. 

For  nearly  a  month  past,  ever  since  the  day 
when  Sidonie  came  and  took  Frantz  away  in  her 
coupe,  Desiree  had  known  that  she  was  no  longer 
loved,  and  she  knew  her  rival's  name.  She  bore 
them  no  ill-will,  she  pitied  them  rather.  But, 
why  had  he  returned?  Why  had  he  so  heedlessly 
given  her  that  false  hope?  As  the  unhappy  man 
condemned  to  the  darkness  of  a  dungeon  accus- 
toms his  eyes  to  the  different  degrees  of  darkness 
and  his  limbs  to  the  confined  space,  and  then,  if 
he  is  led  suddenly  into  the  light  for  a  moment, 
finds  on  his  return  the  dungeon  gloomier,  the 
darkness  more  profound  than  before,  so  it  was 
with  her,  poor  child ;  and  that  bright  light  that 
had  suddenly  burst  upon  her  life,  had  left  it, 
upon  being  withdrawn,  more  forlorn  by  all  the 
horror  of  renewed  captivity.  How  many  tears 
had  she  devoured  in  silence  since  that  moment ! 
How  many  tales  of  woe  had  she  told  her  little 
birds  !  For  once  more  it  was  work  that  had  sus- 
tained her,  desperate,  incessant  work,  which,  by 
its  regularity  and  monotony,  by  the  constant  re- 
currence of  the  same  duties  and  the  same  motions, 
served  as  a  balance-wheel  to  her  thoughts. 

And  just  as  the  little  dead  birds  found  beneath 
her  fingers  a  semblance  of  life,  so  her  illusions  and 
her  hopes,  dead  likewise  and  filled  with  a  subtler 


250  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

and  more  penetrating  poison  than  that  which  flew 
about  her  work-table  in  grains  of  powder,  still 
flapped  their  wings  from  time  to  time  with  an 
effort  wherein  intense  suffering  was  blended  with 
the  vigorous  impulse  of  a  resurrection.  Frantz 
was  not  altogether  lost  to  her.  Although  he 
came  but  rarely  to  see  her,  she  knew  that  he  was 
there,  she  could  hear  him  go  in  and  out,  pace  the 
floor  with  restless  step,  and  sometimes,  through 
the  half-open  door,  see  his  loved  shadow  hurry 
across  the  landing.  He  did  not  seem  happy. 
Indeed  what  happiness  could  be  in  store  for 
him?  He  loved  his  brother's  wife.  And  at  the 
thought  that  Frantz  was  not  happy,  the  fond 
creature  almost  forgot  her  own  sorrow  to  think 
only  of  the  sorrow  of  the  man  she  loved. 

She  was  well  aware  that  it  was  impossible  that 
he  could  ever  love  her  again.  But  she  thought 
that  perhaps  she  would  see  him  come  in  some 
day,  wounded  and  dying,  that  he  would  sit  down 
on  the  little  low  chair,  lay  his  head  on  her  knees, 
and  with  a  great  sob  tell  her  of  his  suffering  and 
say  to  her :    "  Comfort  me." 

That  forlorn  hope  kept  her  alive  for  three  weeks. 
She  needed  so  little  as  that. 

But  no.  Even  that  was  denied  her.  Frantz 
had  gone,  gone  without  a  glance  for  her,  without 
a  parting  word.  The  lover's  desertion  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  desertion  of  the  friend.  It  was 
horrible ! 

At  her  father's  first  words,  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
hurled  into  a  deep,  ice-cold  abyss,  filled  with  dark- 


A  News  Item.  251 

ncss,  into  which  she  plunged  swiftly,  helplessly, 
well  knowing  that  she  would  nev^cr  return  to  the 
light.  She  was  stifling.  She  would  have  liked 
to  resist,  to  struggle,  to  call  for  help. 

But  to  whom? 

Well  she  knew  that  her  mother  would  not  hear 
her. 

Sidonie?  Oh!  she  knew  her,  now.  It  would 
have  been  better  for  her  to  apply  to  these  little 
insects  with  the  gorgeous  plumage,  whose  tiny 
eyes  gazed  at  her  with  such  heedless  gayety. 

The  terrible  part  of  it  was  that  she  realized  in- 
stantly that  work  would  not  save  her  again.  It 
had  lost  its  beneficent  power.  The  inert  arms 
were  powerless  now;  the  weary,  listless  fingers 
parted  in  the  idleness  of  utter  discouragement. 

Who  was  there  who  had  the  power  to  sustain 
her  in  that  great  disaster? 

God?     The  thing  that  is  called  Heaven? 

She  did  not  even  think  of  that.  In  Paris,  espe- 
cially in  the  quarters  where  the  working  class  live, 
the  houses  are  too  high,  the  streets  too  narrow, 
the  air  too  murky  for  heaven  to  be  seen.  It  is 
obscured  by  the  smoke  from  the  factories,  and  the 
steam  that  ascends  from  the  damp  roofs ;  and 
then,  life  is  so  hard  for  most  of  those  people,  that 
if  the  idea  of  a  Providence  should  intrude  itself  in 
their  misery,  it  would  be  greeted  with  a  threaten- 
ing gesture  and  a  curse.  That  is  why  there  are 
so  many  suicides  in  Paris.  The  common  people, 
not  knowing  how  to  pray,  are  ready^  to  die  at  any 
moment.      Death  appears  in  the   background  of 


252  Fro7nont  and  Risler. 

all  their  sulETerings,  the  death  that  delivers  and 
consoles. 

It  was  Death  at  which  the  little  cripple  was 
gazing  so  earnestly. 

Her  course  was  determined  upon  at  once :  she 
must  die. 

But  how? 

Sitting  motionless  in  her  easy  chair,  while  idiotic 
life  went  on  about  her,  while  her  mother  prepared 
the  dinner,  while  the  great  man  declaimed  a  long 
soliloquy  against  human  ingratitude,  she  considered 
what  manner  of  death  she  should  choose.  As  she 
was  almost  never  alone,  she  could  not  think  of  the 
brazier  of  charcoal,  to  be  lighted  after  closing  the 
doors  and  windows.  As  she  never  went  out,  she 
could  not  think  either  of  poison  to  be  purchased 
at  the  druggist's,  a  little  package  of  white  powder 
to  be  buried  in  the  depths  of  the  pocket,  with 
the  needle-case  and  the  thimble.  There  was  the 
phosphorus  on  the  matches,  too,  the  verdigris 
on  old  sous,  the  open  window  with  the  paved 
street  below;  but  the  thought  of  forcing  upon 
her  parents  the  ghastly  spectacle  of  a  self-inflicted 
death-agony,  the  thought  that  what  would  remain 
of  her,  picked  up  amid  a  crowd  of  people,  would 
be  so  frightful  to  look  upon,  made  her  reject  that 
method. 

She  still  had  the  river. 

At  all  events  the  water  carries  you  away  some- 
where, so  that  nobody  finds  you,  and  your  death 
is  shrouded  in  mystery. 

The  river! 


A  News  Item.  253 

She  shuddcrc(d  at  the  mere  thought.  But  it 
was  not  the  vision  of  the  deep,  black  water  that 
terrified  her.  The  girls  of  Paris  laugh  at  that. 
You  throw  your  apron  over  your  head  so  that  you 
can't  see,  and  poicf !  But  she  must  go  downstairs, 
into  the  street,  all  alone,  and  the  street  frightened 
her. 

Now,  while  the  poor  girl  was  making,  in  anticipa- 
tion, that  final  bound  toward  death  and  oblivion, 
while  she  was  gazing  from  afar  at  the  dark 
chasm,  with  haggard  eyes,  to  which  the  madness 
of  suicide  was  already  ascending,  the  illustrious 
Delobelle  gradually  recovered  his  spirits,  talked 
less  dramatically,  and  finally,  as  there  was  cabbage 
for  dinner,  a  dish  of  which  he  was  very  fond,  he 
softened  as  he  ate,  recalled  his  former  triumphs, 
the  golden  wreath,  the  subscribers  at  Alengon,  and, 
as  soon  as  dinner  was  at  an  end,  went  off  to  see 
Robricart  make  his  debut  at  the  Odeon  in  Le 
Misanthrope,  brushed  and  combed,  with  clean  white 
cuffs,  and  in  his  pockets  a  new  and  shiny  hundred- 
sou  piece  which  his  wife  had  given  him  so  that 
he  could  play  the  dandy. 

"  I  am  very  happy,"  said  Mamma  Delobelle  as 
she  removed  the  dishes.  "  Father  dined  well  to- 
night. It  comforted  him  a  little,  poor  man  !  The 
play  will  finish  diverting  him.  He  needs  so  much 
to  be  diverted." 

Yes,  it  was  a  terrible  thing  to  go  out  into  the 
street  alone.  She  must  wait  until  the  gas  was  out, 
steal  softly  downstairs  when  her  mother  had  gone 
to  bed,  pull  the  concierge's  cord  and  make  her 


2  54  Fromont  and  Risler. 

way  across  Paris,  where  you  meet  men  who  stare 
impertinently  into  your  face,  and  pass  briUiantly 
lighted  cafes.  Desiree  had  had  that  horror  of  the 
street  from  her  childhood.  When,  as  a  little  girl,  she 
was  sent  on  an  errand,  the  street  urchins  used  to 
follow  her  with  jeers,  and  she  could  not  say  which 
was  the  more  painful,  the  parody  of  her  uneven  gait, 
the  hitching  up  of  the  insolent  little  blouses,  or  the 
pity  of  the  passers-by,  who  charitably  looked  the 
other  way.  She  was  afraid  of  the  carriages,  too, 
and  the  omnibuses.  The  river  was  a  long  distance 
away.  She  would  be  very  tired.  However,  there 
was  no  other  way  than  that. 

"  I  am  going  to  bed,  my  child  ;  are  you  going  to 
sit  up  any  longer?" 

With  her  eyes  on  her  work,  "  my  child"  replied 
that  she  was.     She  wished  to  finish  her  dozen. 

"  Good-night,  then,"  said  Mamma  Delobelle,  her 
enfeebled  sight  being  unable  to  endure  the  light 
longer.  "  I  have  put  father's  supper  by  the  fire. 
Just  look  at  it  before  you  go  to  bed." 

Desiree  did  not  lie.  She  really  intended  to  finish 
her  dozen,  so  that  her  father  could  take  them  to 
the  shop  in  the  morning;  and  really,  to  see  that 
tranquil  little  head  bending  forward  in  the  white 
light  of  the  lamp,  one  w^ould  never  have  imag- 
ined all  the  sinister  thoughts  with  which  it  w^as 
thronged. 

At  last  she  takes  up  the  last  bird  of  the  dozen,  a 
marvellously  lovely  little  bird  whose  wings  seem 
to  have  been  dipped  in  sea-water,  all  green  as  they 
are  with  a  tinge  of  sapphire. 


A  News  Item.  255 

Carefully,  daintil)',  Dcsircc  suspends  him  on  a 
piece  of  brass  wire,  in  the  charming  attitude  of  a 
frightened  creature  about  to  fly  away. 

Ah  !  how  true  it  is  that  the  little  blue  bird  is 
about  to  fly  away !  What  a  desperate  flight  into 
space !  How  certain  one  feels  that  this  time  it  is 
the  great  journey,  the  everlasting  journey  from 
which  there  is  no  return  ! 

Now  the  work  is  finished,  the  table  set  in  order, 
the  last  needlefuls  of  silk  scrupulously  picked  up, 
the  pins  stuck  in  the  cushion. 

The  father,  when  he  returns,  will  find  the  lamp 
partly  turned  down  and  his  supper  in  front  of  the 
hot  ashes ;  and  that  ghastly,  ill-omened  evening 
will  seem  to  him  as  peaceful  as  all  other  evenings, 
in  view  of  the  neatness  of  the  room  and  the  strict 
compliance  with  his  usual  whims.  Very  softly 
D^sir^-e  opens  the  wardrobe  and  takes  a  thin  shawl 
which  she  throws  over  her  shoulders ;  then  she 
goes. 

What?  Not  a  glance  at  her  mother,  not  a  silent 
farewell,  not  a  tear? —  No,  nothing!  With  the  ter- 
rible clearness  of  vision  of  those  who  are  about  to 
die,  she  suddenly  realizes  that  her  childhood  and 
youth  have  been  sacrificed  to  a  vast  self-love.  She 
feels  very  sure  that  a  word  from  their  great  man 
will  comfort  that  sleeping  mother,  with  whom  she 
is  almost  angry  for  not  waking,  for  allowing  her 
to  go  without  a  quiver  of  her  closed  eyelids. 

When  one  dies  young,  even  by  one's  own  act,  it 
is  never  without  a  rebellious  feeling,  and  poor 
D^siree  bids  adieu  to  life,  indignant  with  destiny. 


256  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Now  she  is  in  the  street.  Where  is  she  going? 
Everything  seems  deserted  already.  These  quar- 
ters, so  full  of  life  in  the  daytime,  subside  early  in 
the  evening.  The  people  work  too  hard  not  to 
fall  asleep  quickly.  While  the  Paris  of  the  boule- 
vards, still  full  of  life,  causes  the  ruddy  glare  of  a 
distant  conflagration  to  hover  over  the  whole  city, 
here  all  the  great  doors  are  closed,  the  shutters  in 
place  at  the  shop  windows.  From  time  to  time  a 
belated  knock,  the  footstep  of  a  policeman  whom 
you  hear  but  do  not  see,  the  soliloquy  of  a  drunken 
man  interrupted  by  the  vagaries  of  his  course,  break 
the  silence ;  or  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  from  the 
neighboring  quays  rattles  the  glass  of  a  lantern  or 
the  old  rope  of  a  pulley,  sweeps  around  a  street 
corner  and  dies  away  with  a  whistling  sound  under 
a  sagging  threshold. 

Desiree  walks  rapidly,  wrapped  in  her  little  shawl, 
head  erect,  dry-eyed.  Not  knowing  the  way,  she 
walks  straight  ahead. 

The  dark,  narrow  streets  of  the  Marais,  where 
gas-jets  twinkle  at  long  intervals,  cross  and  re-cross 
and  wind  about,  and  again  and  again  in  her  fever- 
ish course  she  goes  over  the  same  ground.  There 
is  always  something  between  her  and  the  river. 
And  yet  the  wind  brings  its  damp,  cool  breath  to 
her  face.  Really,  one  would  say  that  the  water  re- 
coils, surrounds  itself  with  barriers,  that  thick  walls 
and  lofty  buildings  purposely  place  themselves  in 
front  of  death ;  but  the  little  cripple  has  good 
courage,  and  over  the  uneven  pavement  of  the  old 
streets  she  goes  on  and  on. 


A  News  Item.  257 

Did  you  ever  see,  toward  the  close  of  a  day's 
hunting,  a  wounded  partridge  seek  shelter  in  a 
furrow?  He  crouches,  he  skims  along  the  ground, 
dragging  his  bleeding  wing  toward  some  place  of 
refuge  where  he  can  die  in  peace.  The  uncertain 
gait  of  this  little  shadow,  hurrying  along  the  side- 
walks close  to  the  walls,  gives  one  exactly  the  same 
impression.  And  to  think  that,  at  that  very  hour, 
almost  in  the  same  quarter,  some  one  else  is  wan- 
dering through  the  streets,  waiting,  watching,  des- 
perate !  Ah  !  if  they  could  but  meet.  Suppose 
she  should  accost  that  feverish  watcher,  should  ask 
him  to  direct  her : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Monsieur.  How  can  I  get 
to  the  Seine?  " 

He  would  recognize  her  at  once. 

"What!  Can  it  be  you,  Mam'zelle  Zizi?  What 
are  you  doing  out-of-doors  at  this  time  of  night?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  die,  Frantz.  You  have  taken 
away  all  my  pleasure  in  living." 

Thereupon  he,  deeply  moved,  would  seize  her, 
press  her  to  his  heart  and  carry  her  away  in  his 
arms,  saying : 

"  Oh !  no,  do  not  die.  I  need  you  to  comfort 
me,  to  cure  all  the  wounds  the  other  has  inflicted 
on  me." 

But  that  is  a  mere  poet's  dream,  one  of  the 
meetings  that  life  cannot  bring  about.  It  is  far  too 
cruel,  is  this  inexorable  life  ;  and  when  so  very  little 
is  needed  sometimes  to  save  a  whole  existence,  it 
takes  good  care  not  to  furnish  that  very  little. 
That  is  why  true  novels  are  always  so  sad. 
17 


258  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Streets,  more  streets,  then  a  square  and  a  bridge 
whose  lanterns  make  another  luminous  bridge  in 
the  black  water.  Here  is  the  river  at  last.  The 
mist  of  that  damp,  soft  autumn  evening  causes  all 
of  this  huge  Paris,  entirely  strange  to  her  as  it  is, 
to  appear  to  her  like  an  enormous  confused  mass, 
which  her  ignorance  of  the  landmarks  magnifies 
still  more.     This  is  the  place  where  she  must  die. 

She  feels  so  small,  so  entirely  alone,  so  lost  in 
the  immensity  of  this  great,  brilliantly-lighted  yet 
deserted  city.  She  walks  toward  the  quay,  and 
suddenly  the  odor  of  flowers,  of  leaves,  of  freshly- 
turned  earth  causes  her  to  pause  a  moment.  At 
her  feet,  on  the  footpath  that  skirts  the  stream, 
bundles  of  shrubs  wrapped  in  straw,  flower-pots 
in  their  white  paper  coverings  are  already  in  place 
for  to-morrow's  market.  Wrapped  in  their  shawls, 
with  their  feet  on  their  foot-stoves,  the  flower- 
women  lean  back  in  their  chairs,  benumbed  by 
sleep  and  the  cool  night  air.  The  Reines-Margue- 
rites  of  all  colors,  the  mignonette,  the  late  roses 
fill  the  air  with  fragrance,  standing  erect  in  a  ray 
of  moonlight  with  their  slender  shadows  by  their 
sides,  transplanted,  torn  from  their  native  soil, 
awaiting  the  caprice  of  slumbering  Paris, 

Poor  little  Desiree !  One  would  say  that  her 
whole  youth,  her  infrequent  days  of  pleasure  and 
her  hopeless  love  ascend  to  her  heart  in  the  per- 
fume of  that  itinerant  garden.  She  walks  softly 
among  the  flowers.  Sometimes  a  gust  of  wind 
makes  the  shrubs  brush  against  one  another  like 
the  branches  of  a  hedge ;    and   on  the  footpath, 


A  News  Item.  259 

baskets  filled  with  plants  lately  taken  from  the 
ground  exhale  an  odor  of  moist  earth. 

She  recalls  the  country  excursion  which  Frantz 
had  organized  for  her.  That  breath  of  nature, 
which  she  breathed  that  day  for  the  first  time,  falls 
to  her  lot  again  at  the  moment  of  her  death. 
"Remember,"  it  seems  to  say  to  her;  and  she  re- 
plies mentally  :   "  Oh  !  yes,  I  remember." 

She  remembers  only  too  well.  When  it  arrives 
at  the  end  of  the  quay,  which  was  bedecked  as  for 
a  holiday,  the  furtive  little  shadow  pauses  at  the 
steps  leading  down  to  the  bank. 

Almost  immediately  there  are  shouts  and  excite- 
ment all  along  the  quay  : 

"  Quick  —  a  boat  —  grappling-irons  !  "  Boatmen 
and  policemen  come  running  from  all  sides.  A 
boat  puts  off  from  the  shore  with  a  lantern  in  the 
bow. 

The  flower-women  wake,  and  when  one  of  them 
asks  with  a  yawn  what  is  happening,  the  woman 
who  keeps  the  cafe  that  crouches  at  the  corner  of 
the  bridge,  answers  coolly  : 

"  A  woman  just  jumped  into  the  river." 

But  no.  The  river  has  refused  to  take  that 
child.  It  has  been  moved  to  pity  by  so  great 
gentleness  and  charm.  In  the  light  of  the  lan- 
terns swinging  to  and  fro  on  the  shore,  a  black 
group  forms  and  moves  away.  She  is  saved  !  It 
was  a  sand-hauler  who  fished  her  out.  Policemen 
arc  carrying  her,  surrounded  by  boatmen  and  light- 
ermen, and  in  the  darkness  a  hoarse  voice  is  heard 
saying  with  a  sneer :  "  That  water-hen  gave  me  a 


26o  Fromont  and  Risler. 

lot  of  trouble.  You  ought  to  see  how  she  slipped 
through  my  fingers  !  I  believe  she  'd  'a'  liked  to 
make  me  lose  my  reward."  Gradually  the  tumult 
subsides,  the  bystanders  disperse,  and,  while  the 
black  group  moves  away  toward  a  police-station, 
the  flower-women  resume  their  naps,  and  the 
Reines-Marguerites  tremble  in  the  night  wind  on 
the  deserted  quay. 

Ah !  poor  girl,  you  thought  that  it  was  an  easy 
matter  to  have  done  with  life,  to  disappear  ab- 
ruptly. You  did  not  know  that,  instead  of  bearing 
you  away  swiftly  to  the  oblivion  you  sought,  the  river 
would  drive  you  back  to  all  the  shame,  to  all  the 
ignominy  of  unsuccessful  suicide.  First  of  all,  the 
station,  the  hideous  station  with  its  filthy  benches, 
its  floor  where  the  sodden  dust  seems  like  mud 
from  the  street.  There  Desiree  was  doomed  to 
pass  the  rest  of  the  night.  They  laid  her  on  a 
camp-bed  in  front  of  the  stove,  which  was  chari- 
tably stuffed  full  of  fuel  for  her  benefit,  and  the 
sickening  heat  made  the  steam  rise  in  clouds  from 
her  heavy,  dripping  clothes.  Where  was  she? 
She  had  no  clear  idea.  The  men  lying  all  about 
in  beds  like  her  own,  the  depressing  bareness  of 
the  room,  the  howling  of  two  drunkards  locked  in 
cells,  who  were  beating  on  the  doors  with  horrible 
oaths,  all  of  these  the  little  cripple  gazed  at  and 
listened  to  vaguely,  without  understanding. 

By  her  side  a  woman  in  rags,  with  her  hair  fall- 
ing over  her  shoulders,  was  crouching  in  front  of 
the  open  door  of  the  stove,  whose  ruddy  reflection 
had  no  power  to  flush  that  haggard,  pallid  face. 


A  News  Item.  261 

She  was  a  madwoman  picked  up  during  the  night, 
an  unfortunate  creature  who  kept  nodding  her 
head  invohintarily  and  repeating  incessantly  in  an 
unmeaning  voice,  ahnost  independent  of  the  move- 
ment of  her  Hps :  "  Oh  !  yes,  poor,  you  may  well 
say  so. — Oh!  yes,  poor,  you  may  well  say  so." 
And  that  distressing  lament,  amid  the  snoring  of 
the  sleeping  men,  oppressed  Desiree  horribly. 
She  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  that 
vacant  face,  which  terrified  her  like  the  personifi- 
cation of  her  own  despair.  From  time  to  time  the 
street  door  opened,  the  voice  of  an  officer  called 
out  certain  names,  whereupon  two  policemen  went 
out  while  two  others  came  in  and  threw  themselves 
on  their  beds,  as  exhausted  as  sailors  who  have 
passed  the  night  on  deck. 

At  last  day  broke  with  the  shuddering  glare  so 
distressing  to  invalids.  Suddenly  aroused  from 
her  torpor,  Desirdc  sat  up  in  her  bed,  threw  off 
the  blanket  in  which  they  had  wrapped  her,  and 
despite  fatigue  and  fever  tried  to  stand,  in  order 
to  regain  full  possession  of  her  faculties  and  her 
will.  She  had  but  one  thought,  —  to  escape  from 
all  those  eyes  that  were  opening  on  all  sides,  to 
leave  that  frightful  place  where  the  breath  of  sleep 
was  so  heavy  and  its  attitudes  so  distorted. 

"  I  implore  you,  messieurs,"  she  said,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  "  let  me  return  to  mamma." 

Hardened  as  they  were  to  Parisian  dramas,  even 
those  good  people  realized  that  they  were  face  to 
face  with  something  more  worthy  of  attention, 
more   affecting  than   usual.     But  they  could   not 


262  Fromont  and  Rislcr, 

take  her  back  to  her  mother  as  yet.  She  must  go 
before  the  commissioner  first.  That  was  absolutely 
necessary.  They  called  a  cab  from  compassion 
for  her ;  but  she  must  go  from  the  station  to  the 
cab,  and  there  was  a  crowd  at  the  door  to  stare  at 
the  little  lame  girl  with  the  damp  hair  glued  to  her 
temples,  and  her  policeman's  blanket  which  did  not 
prevent  her  shivering.  At  headquarters  she  was 
conducted  up  a  dark,  damp  stairway  where  sinister 
figures  were  passing  to  and  fro,  A  swinging  door, 
which  the  exigencies  of  the  public  service  kept 
opening  and  closing ;  cold,  ill-lighted  rooms ;  on 
the  benches,  silent,  downcast,  sleeping  men  and 
women,  vagabonds,  thieves,  prostitutes ;  a  table 
covered  with  an  old  green  cloth  at  which  the 
"  commissioner's  dog "  was  writing,  a  tall  knave 
with  the  head  of  a  pawn  and  a  threadbare  coat: 
that  was  the  place. 

When  Desiree  entered,  a  man  rose  from  the 
shadow  and  came  to  meet  her,  holding  out  his 
hand.  It  was  the  man  of  the  reward,  her  hideous 
rescuer  at  twenty-five  francs, 

"  Well,  little  mother,"  he  said,  with  his  cynical 
laugh,  and  in  a  voice  that  made  one  think  of  foggy 
nights  on  the  water,  "  how  are  we  since  our  dive?  " 

Thereupon  he  told  the  assembled  company  how 
he  had  fished  her  out,  how  he  had  grabbed  her 
like  that,  then  like  this,  and  how,  but  for  him,  she 
would  surely  be  well  on  her  way  to  Rouen  under 
water. 

The  unhappy  girl  was  burning  red  with  fever 
and  shame;  so  bewildered  that  it  seemed  to  her 


A  Nezvs  Item.  26 


J 


as  if  the  river  had  left  a  veil  over  her  eyes,  a  buzz- 
ing in  her  ears.  At  last  she  was  ushered  into  a 
smaller  room,  into  the  presence  of  a  pompous  in- 
dividual, wearing  the  insignia  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor  —  Monsieur  le  Commissaire  in  person,  who 
was  sipping  his  caf^ an  lait  d,vA  reading  the  Gazette 
des  Tribunaiix. 

"Ah!  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  said  in  a  surly  tone 
and  without  raising  his  eyes  from  his  paper,  as  he 
dipped  a  piece  of  bread  in  his  cup ;  and  the  officer 
who  had  brought  D^sir^e  began  at  once  to  read 
his  report: 

"  At  quarter  to  twelve,  on  Quai  de  la  Megisserie, 
in  front  of  No.  17,  the  woman  Delobelle,  twenty- 
four  years  old,  flower-maker,  living  with  her  par- 
ents on  Rue  de  Braque,  tried  to  commit  suicide  by 
throwing  herself  into  the  Seine,  and  was  taken  out 
safe  and  sound  by  Sieur  Parcheminet,  sand-hauler 
of  Rue  de  la  Rutte-Chaumont." 

Monsieur  le  Commissaire  listened  as  he  ate, 
with  the  listless,  bored  expression  of  a  man  whom 
nothing  can  surprise ;  at  the  end  he  gazed  sternly 
and  with  a  pompous  affectation  of  virtue  at  the 
woman  Delobelle,  and  lectured  her  in  the  most 
approved  fashion.  It  was  very  wicked,  it  was 
cowardly,  this  thing  that  she  had  done.  What 
could  have  driven  her  to  such  an  evil  act?  Why 
did  she  seek  to  destroy  herself?  Come,  woman 
Delobelle,  answer,  why  was  it? 

But  the  woman  Delobelle  obstinately  declined 
to  answer.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  put  a 
stigma  upon  her  love  to  avow  it  in  such  a  place. 


264  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know,"  she  whispered, 
shivering. 

Testy  and  impatient,  the  commissioner  decided 
that  she  should  be  taken  back  to  her  parents,  but 
only  on  one  condition :  she  must  promise  never  to 
try  it  again. 

"  Come,  do  you  promise?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  monsieur." 

"  You  will  never  try  again  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  indeed  I  will  not,  never  —  never  !  " 

Notwithstanding  her  protestations,  Monsieur  le 
Commissaire  de  Police  shook  his  head,  as  if  he  did 
not  trust  her  oath. 

Now  she  is  outside  once  more,  on  the  way  to 
her  home,  to  a  place  of  refuge ;  but  her  martyr- 
dom was  not  yet  at  an  end. 

In  the  carriage  the  officer  who  accompanied  her 
was  too  polite,  too  affable.  She  seemed  not  to 
understand,  shrank  from  him,  withdrew  her  hand. 
What  torture  !  — But  the  most  terrible  moment  of 
all  was  the  arrival  in  Rue  de  Braque,  where  the 
whole  house  was  in  a  state  of  commotion,  and  the 
inquisitive  curiosity  of  the  neighbors  must  be  en- 
dured. Early  in  the  morning  the  whole  quarter 
had  been  informed  of  her  disappearance.  It  was 
rumored  that  she  had  gone  away  with  Frantz  Ris- 
ler. The  illustrious  Delobelle  had  gone  forth  very 
early,  intensely  agitated,  with  his  hat  awry  and 
rumpled  wristbands,  a  sure  indication  of  extraordi- 
nary preoccupation;  and  the  concierge,  on  taking 
up  the  provisions,  had  found  the  poor  mother  half 
mad,  running  from  one  room  to  another,  looking 


A  News  Item.  265 

for  a  note  from  the  child,  for  any  clew,  however 
unimportant,  that  would  enable  her  at  least  to 
form  some  conjecture. 

That  unhappy  mother's  mind  had  tardily  and 
suddenly  awakened  to  the  peculiarity  of  her 
daughter's  actions  during  the  last  few  da}-s  and 
her  silence  on  the  subject  of  Frantz's  departure. 
"  Do  not  weep,  my  wife,  I  will  bring  her  back  to 
you,"  the  father  had  said  when  he  went  away,  as 
much  to  shun  the  spectacle  of  that  great  sorrow  as 
to  seek  information;  and  since  then  she  had  done 
nothing  but  go  from  the  landing  to  the  window, 
from  the  window  to  the  landing.  At  the  slightest 
sound  in  the  hall  she  would  open  the  door,  with 
wildly  beating  heart,  and  rush  out;  and  then, 
when  she  returned,  the  loneliness  of  the  little  room, 
heightened  by  D^siree's  great  empty  armchair  half 
turned  toward  the  sewing  table,  made  her  burst 
into  tears. 

Suddenly  a  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  the 
door.  Voices  and  footsteps  echoed  through  the 
hall. 

"  Maine  Delobelle,  here  she  is  !  Your  daughter  's 
been  found." 

It  was  really  Desirce  who  came  toiling  up  the 
stairs  on  the  arm  of  a  stranger,  pale  and  fainting, 
without  hat  or  shawl,  and  wrapped  in  a  great 
brown  cape.  When  she  saw  her  mother  she 
smiled  at   her  with  an  almost   foolish  expression. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  it  is  nothing,"  she  tried  to 
say,  then  sank  to  the  floor.  Mamma  Delobelle 
would  never  have  believed  that  she  was  so  strong. 


266  Fromont  and  Risler, 

To  lift  her  daughter,  take  her  into  the  room,  and 
put  her  to  bed  was  a  matter  of  a  moment;  and 
she  talked  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  Here  you  are  at  last.  Where  have  you  come 
from,  you  bad  child?  Tell  me,  is  it  true  that  you 
tried  to  kill  yourself?  Were  you  suffering  so 
terribly?     Why  did  you  conceal  it  from  me?" 

When  she  saw  her  mother  in  that  condition, 
with  tear-stained  face,  aged  in  a  few  short  hours, 
Desiree  felt  a  terrible  burden  of  remorse.  She  re- 
membered that  she  had  gone  away  without  saying 
good-bye  to  her,  and  that  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart  she  had  accused  her  of  not  loving  her. 

Not  loving  her ! 

"Why,  it  would  kill  me  if  you  should  die,"  said 
the  poor  mother.  "  Oh !  when  I  got  up  this 
morning  and  saw  that  your  bed  had  n't  been  slept 
in  and  that  you  were  n't  in  the  work-room  either  !  — 
I  just  turned  round  and  fell  flat.  —  Are  you  warm 
now?  —  Do  you  feel  well? — You  won't  do  it  again, 
will  you  —  try  to  kill  yourself?  " 

And  she  tucked  in  the  bed-clothes,  rubbed  her 
feet,  and  rocked  her  upon  her  breast. 

As  she  lay  in  bed,  with  her  eyes  closed,  Desiree 
saw  anew  all  the  incidents  of  her  suicide,  all  the 
hideous  scenes  through  which  she  had  passed  in 
returning  from  death  to  life.  In  the  fever,  which 
rapidly  increased,  in  the  intense  drowsiness  which 
began  to  overpower  her,  her  mad  journey  across 
Paris  continued  to  excite  and  torment  her.  Myr- 
iads of  dark  streets  stretched  away  before  her,  with 
the  Seine  at  the  end  of  each. 


A  News  I  ion.  267 

That  ghastly  river,  which  she  could  not  find  in 
the  night,  haunted  her  now. 

She  felt  that  she  was  besmirched  with  its  slime, 
its  mud ;  and  in  the  nightmare  that  oppressed  her, 
the  poor  child,  powerless  to  escape  the  obsession 
of  her  recollections,  whispered  to  her  mother : 
"Hide  me  —  hide  me— I  am  ashamed!" 


268  Fromont  and  Risler. 


VL 

SHE   PROMISED   NOT   TO   TRY   AGAIN. 

Oh  !  no,  she  will  not  try  again.  Monsieur  le  Com- 
missaire  need  have  no  fear.  In  the  first  place  how 
could  she  go  as  far  as  the  river,  now  that  she  can- 
not stir  from  her  bed  ?  If  Monsieur  le  Commissaire 
could  see  her  now,  he  would  not  doubt  her  word. 
Doubtless  the  wish,  the  longing  for  death,  so  un- 
mistakably written  on  her  pale  face  the  other 
morning,  are  still  visible  there ;  but  they  are 
softened,  resigned.  The  woman  Delobelle  knows 
that  by  waiting  a  little,  yes,  a  very  little  time,  she 
will  have  nothing  more  to  wish  for. 

The  doctors  declare  that  she  is  dying  of  in- 
flammation of  the  lungs ;  she  must  have  contracted 
it  in  her  wet  clothes.  The  doctors  are  mistaken ; 
it  is  not  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  Is  it  her  love, 
then,  that  is  killing  her?  —  No.  Since  that  terrible 
night  she  no  longer  thinks  of  Frantz,  she  no  longer 
feels  that  she  is  worthy  to  love  or  to  be  loved. 
Thenceforth  there  is  a  stain  upon  her  spotless  life, 
and  it  is  of  that  and  nothing  else  that  she  is 
dying. 

Each  of  the  changing  scenes  of  the  horrible 
drama   is   to   her   mind  a  defilement:    the   being 


S/ic  Pi'omised  not  to   Try  Again.     269 

dragged  from  the  water  before  all  those  men,  her 
tired  slumber  in  the  station,  the  vile  songs  she 
heard  there,  the  madwoman  warming  herself  at  the 
stove,  the  whole  mass  of  vice  and  contagion  and 
heartrending  misery  in  the  corridor  at  headquar- 
ters;  and  then,  too,  the  contempt  expressed  in 
some  glances,  the  impudence  of  others,  the  jests  of 
her  rescuer,  the  advances  of  the  police  officer,  the 
destruction  of  her  maidenly  modesty,  the  having  to 
give  her  name,  and  even  the  burden  of  her  infirmity 
which  pursued  her  through  all  the  phases  of  her 
endless  martyrdom,  like  a  satire,  an  exaggeration 
of  the  absurdity  of  her  suicide  for  love. 

She  is  dying  of  shame,  I  tell  you.  In  her  mo- 
ments of  delirium  at  night  that  is  what  she  repeats 
incessantly  :  "  I  am  ashamed  !  I  am  ashamed  !  " 
and  in  her  calmer  moments  she  buries  her  head 
under  the  bedclothes,  covers  her  face  with  them,  as 
if  to  hide  or  to  wrap  herself  in  her  shroud. 

Mamma  Delobelle  sits  by  Desirde's  bed,  working 
by  the  light  from  the  window,  and  nursing  her 
daughter.  From  time  to  time  she  raises  her  eyes 
to  contemplate  that  mute  despair,  that  mysterious 
disease,  then  hastily  resumes  her  work;  for  it  is 
one  of  the  hardest  trials  of  the  poor  that  they  can- 
not suffer  at  their  ease.  They  must  work  without 
respite,  and,  even  when  death  is  hovering  nigh, 
they  must  think  of  the  urgent  demands,  the  difficul- 
ties of  life. 

The  rich  man  can  shut  himself  up  with  liis  grief, 
he  can  steep  himself  in  it,  live  in  it,  do  only  these 
two  things :  suffer  and  weep. 


270  Fromont  and  Risler. 

The  poor  man  has  neither  the  power  nor  the 
right  so  to  do.  I  knew  a  countrywoman  in  my 
province,  an  old  woman  who  had  lost  her  daughter 
and  her  husband  in  the  same  year,  two  terrible 
trials  in  rapid  succession  ;  but  she  still  had  boys  to 
bring  up  and  a  farm  to  manage.  She  must  be 
astir  at  daybreak,  attending  to  everything,  over- 
looking men  engaged  in  various  kinds  of  work, 
scattered  through  the  fields  and  leagues  apart. 
The  poor  widow  said  to  me  :  "  I  have  n't  a  minute 
in  the  whole  week  to  cry;  but  on  Sunday,  oh  !  on 
Sunday,  I  make  up  for  it."  And  it  was  the  fact  that 
on  that  day,  while  the  children  went  out  to  walk, 
or  played  out-of-doors,  she  would  lock  herself  in 
her  room  and  pass  the  afternoon  weeping  and  sob- 
bing and  calling  her  husband  and  daughter  through 
the  silent  house. 

Mamma  Delobelle  had  not  even  her  Sunday. 
Consider  that  she  had  to  work  alone  now,  that  her 
fingers  had  not  the  marvellous  dexterity  of  Desiree's 
little  hands,  that  medicines  were  dear,  and  that  she 
would  not  for  anything  in  the  world  have  interfered 
with  one  of  "  the  father's  "  cherished  habits.  And 
so,  at  whatever  hour  the  invalid  opened  her  eyes, 
she  would  see  her  mother,  in  the  pale  light  of  early 
morning,  or  under  her  night  lamp,  working,  working 
without  rest. 

When  the  curtains  of  her  bed  were  drawn,  she 
would  hear  the  sharp  metallic  sound  of  the  scissors 
as  they  were  laid  upon  the  table. 

Her  mother's  fatigue,  this  sleepless  vigilance 
that   constantly   bore   her  fever  company,   was  a 


She  Promised  not  to    Try  Again.     271 

source  of  suffering  to  her.  Sometimes  they  over- 
shadowed all  the  rest. 

"  Come,  give  me  my  work,"  she  would  say,  try- 
ing to  sit  up  in  bed.  It  was  like  a  ray  of  light  in 
the  darkness  that  grew  more  dense  every  day. 
Mamma  Delobelle,  seeing  in  that  request  of  the 
invalid  a  sign  of  renewed  interest  in  life,  would  ar- 
range her  as  comfortably  as  possible,  and  move  up 
the  table.  But  the  needle  was  too  heavy,  the  eyes 
too  weak,  and  the  slightest  sound  of  a  carriage 
rumbling  over  the  pavement,  a  shout  rising  to 
the  windows,  reminded  Desiree  that  the  street,  the 
horrible  street,  was  there,  close  at  hand.  No,  she 
certainly  had  not  the  strength  to  live.  Ah !  if 
she  could  only  have  died  first,  and  then  have  been 
born  again !  Meanwhile  she  was  dying  and  en- 
veloping herself  little  by  little  in  perfect  self-renun- 
ciation. Between  two  stitches  the  mother  would 
look  up  at  her  child,  whose  face  grew  paler  and 
paler : 

"  How  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"Very  well,"  the  sick  girl  would  reply,  with  a 
faint,  heart-broken  smile,  which  illumined  her  sor- 
rowful face  and  showed  all  the  ravages  that  had 
been  wrought  upon  it,  as  a  sunbeam,  stealing  into 
a  poor  man's  lodging,  instead  of  brightening  it, 
brings  out  more  clearly  its  cheerlessness  and  nudity. 
Then  there  would  be  long  pauses,  the  mother  silent 
for  fear  of  weeping,  the  daughter  benumbed  by 
fever,  already  enveloped  in  those  invisible  veils 
wherein  death,  with  a  sort  of  compassion,  envel- 
ops  the  moribund,    in    order   to    overcome   their 


272  Fr onion t  and  Rislci\ 

remaining  strength  and  to  bear  them  away  more 
gently,  without  a  struggle. 

The  illustrious  Delobelle  was  never  there.  He 
had  not  changed  in  any  respect  the  habits  of  a 
strolling  player  out  of  an  engagement.  And  yet 
he  knew  that  his  daughter  was  dying:  the  doctor 
had  told  him  so.  Moreover,  it  had  been  a  terrible 
blow  to  him,  for,  at  heart,  he  loved  his  child  dearly; 
but  in  that  singular  nature  the  most  sincere,  the 
most  genuine  feelings  adopted  a  false  and  unnat- 
ural mode  of  expression,  by  the  same  law  which 
ordains  that,  when  a  shelf  is  placed  awry,  nothing 
that  you  place  upon  it  seems  to  stand  straight. 

Delobelle's  natural  tendency  was,  before  every- 
thing, to  air  his  grief,  to  spread  it  abroad.  He 
played  the  role  of  the  unhappy  father  from  one 
end  of  the  boulevard  to  the  other.  He  was  always 
to  be  found  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  theatres  or 
at  the  actors'  restaurant,  wnth  red  eyes  and  pale 
cheeks.  He  loved  to  invite  the  question  :  "  Well, 
my  poor  old  fellow,  how  are  things  going  at 
home?"  Thereupon  he  would  shake  his  head 
with  a  nervous  gesture ;  his  grimace  held  tears  in 
check,  his  mouth  imprecations,  and  he  would  stab 
heaven  with  a  silent  glance,  overflowing  with 
wrath,  as  when  he  played  the  Medeciu  dcs  En- 
fant s ;  all  of  which  did  not  prevent  him,  however, 
from  bestowing  the  most  delicate  and  thoughtful 
attentions  upon  his  daughter. 

For  instance,  he  had  adopted  the  practice,  since 
she  had  been  ill,  of  bringing  her  flowers  from  his 
wanderings  about  Paris ;   and  he  was  not  content 


She  Promised  not  to   Try  Again.    273 

with  common  flowers,  with  the  humble  violets 
which  bloom  at  every  street  corner  for  lii^ht  purses. 
In  those  melancholy  autumn  days  he  must  have 
roses  and  pinks  and,  above  all,  white  lilacs,  lilacs 
raised  under  glass,  with  flowers  and  leaves  and 
stalk  of  the  same  greenish  white,  as  if  nature  in 
her  haste  had  adhered  to  a  uniform  coloring. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  too  much,  it  is  too  much  ;  I  shall  be 
angry,"  the  sick  girl  would  always  say,  when  he 
entered  the  room  in  triumph,  nosegay  in  hand ; 
but  he  would  reply  with  such  a  lordly  air:  "  Non- 
sense, nonsense  !  "  that  she  dared  not  insist. 

And  yet  it  was  a  very  expensive  habit,  and  the 
mother  had  such  hard  work  to  earn  a  living  for 
them  all. 

But  Mamma  Delobelle,  far  from  complaining, 
considered  it  a  very  lovely  thing  for  her  great  man 
to  do. 

Such  contempt  for  money,  such  superb  reckless- 
ness, filled  her  with  admiration,  and  she  believed 
more  implicitly  than  eycr  in  her  husband's  genius 
and  his  theatrical  future. 

He  also  maintained  an  unalterable  confidence, 
no  matter  what  happened.  And  }'et  iiis  eyes  came 
very  near  being  opened  to  the  truth  at  last.  A 
hot  little  hand  laid  upon  that  pompous,  illusion- 
ridden  head,  came  very  near  expelling  the  bee  that 
had  been  buzzing  there  so  long.  This  is  how  it 
came  to  pass. 

One  night  Ddsiree  awoke  with  a  start,  in  a  very 
strange  state.  It  should  be  said  that  tlie  doctor, 
when  he  came  to  see  her  on  the  preceding  even- 


2  74  Fr 07110 lit  and  Risler. 

ing,  had  been  greatly  surprised  to  find  her  sud- 
denly brighter  and  calmer,  and  entirely  free  from 
fever.  Without  attempting  to  explain  this  un- 
hoped-for resurrection,  he  had  gone  away,  saying: 
"  Let  us  wait  and  see;  "  he  relied  upon  the  power 
of  youth  to  throw  off  disease,  upon  the  resistless 
force  of  the  life-giving  sap,  which  often  engrafts  a 
new  life  upon  the  very  symptoms  of  death.  If  he 
had  looked  under  Desir^e's  pillow,  he  would  have 
found  there  a  letter  postmarked  Cairo,  wherein  lay 
the  secret  of  that  happy  change.  Four  pages 
signed  by  Frantz,  his  whole  conduct  confessed  and 
explained  to  his  dear  little  Zizi. 

It  was  the  very  letter  of  which  the  sick  girl  had 
dreamed.  If  she  had  dictated  it  herself,  all  the 
phrases  likely  to  touch  her  heart,  all  the  delicately 
worded  excuses  likely  to  pour  balm  into  her 
wounds  would  have  been  less  satisfactorily  ex- 
pressed. Frantz  repented,  asked  forgiveness,  and 
without  making  any  promises,  above  all  without 
asking  anything  from  her,  described  to  his  faithful 
friend  his  struggles,  his  remorse,  his  sufferings. 
He  inveighed  against  Sidonie,  urged  Desiree  to 
distrust  her,  and,  with  a  resentment  which  his  for- 
mer passion  made  wofully  clear-sighted,  he  wrote 
of  that  wicked  and  at  the  same  time  superficial 
nature,  of  that  soft  voice  made  for  falsehood  and 
never  betrayed  by  an  accent  from  the  heart,  —  for 
it  came  from  the  head,  like  all  of  that  Parisian 
doll's  passionate  outbursts. 

What  a  misfortune  that  that  letter  had  not 
arrived  a  few  days  earlier.     Now,  all  those  kind 


She  Promised  not  io    Try  Again.    275 

words  were  to  Desirce  like  the  dainty  dishes  that 
are  brought  too  late  to  a  man  dyin<:j  of  hunger. 
He  inhales  their  perfume,  longs  for  them,  but 
has  not  the  strength  to  taste  them.  All  day  long 
the  sick  girl  read  and  re-read  her  letter.  She 
would  take  it  from  the  envelope,  then  fold  it  once 
more  with  loving  hands,  and,  closing  her  eyes,  see 
it  still  from  beginning  to  end,  even  to  the  color  of 
the  stamp.  Frantz  had  thought  of  her !  That 
thought  alone  was  so  infinitely  sweet  to  her  that  she 
fell  asleep  at  last  with  the  impression  of  a  loving 
arm  supporting  her  feeble  head. 

Suddenly  she  awoke,  and,  as  we  said  a  moment 
since,  in  an  extraordinary  state.  She  had  a  sense 
of  weakness,  of  agoni.zing  pain  throughout  her 
being  —  something  beyond  all  power  of  expression. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  her  life  hung  by  a  mere 
thread,  a  thread  stretched  to  the  breaking  point, 
whose  nervous  vibration  imparted  a  supernatural 
acuteness  and  delicacy  to  all  her  faculties.  It  was 
dark.  The  room  in  which  she  lay  —  her  parents 
had  given  her  their  room,  which  was  more  spacious 
and  airy  than  her  little  closet  —  was  half  in  dark- 
ness. The  night  lamp  made  its  flickering  circle  of 
light  on  the  ceiling,  that  depressing  sort  of  constel- 
lation which  interests  the  wakeful  hours  of  invalids; 
and  the  lamp  on  the  table,  turned  low  and  re- 
stricted by  the  shade,  lighted  only  the  scattered 
work  and  the  silhouette  of  Mamma  Delobelle 
dozing  in  her  armchair. 

In  Dcsirce's  head,  which  seemed  to  her  lighter 
than  usual,  there  suddenly  began  a  grand  proces- 


276  Fromont  and  Risler. 

sion  of  thoughts  and  memories.  The  most  distant 
periods  of  her  past  seemed  to  approach  her.  The 
most  trivial  incidents  of  her  childhood,  scenes  that 
she  had  not  then  understood,  words  heard  as  in  a 
dream,  recurred  to  her  mind. 

The  child  was  surprised  but  felt  no  fear.  She 
did  not  know  that,  prior  to  the  utter  annihilation 
of  death,  people  frequently  pass  through  a  moment 
of  singular  exaltation,  as  if  the  whole  being  were 
exhausting  its  faculties  and  its  strength  in  one  last 
involuntary  struggle. 

From  her  bed  she  could  see  her  father  and 
mother,  one  by  her  side,  the  other  in  the  work- 
room, the  door  of  which  had  been  left  open. 
Mamma  Delobelle  was  lying  back  in  her  chair  in 
the  careless  attitude  of  long-continued  fatigue, 
heeded  at  last;  and  all  the  scars,  the  ugly  sabre 
cuts  with  which  age  and  suffering  brand  the  faces 
of  the  old,  manifested  themselves,  ineffaceable  and 
pitiful  to  see,  in  the  relaxation  of  slumber.  During 
the  day  a  strong  will  and  engrossing  duties  place 
a  mask,  as  it  were,  over  the  real  expression  of  men's 
faces ;  but  the  night  restores  them  to  themselves. 
At  that  moment  the  stout-hearted  woman's  deep 
wrinkles,  her  reddened  eyelids,  her  sparse  hair, 
white  at  the  temples,  the  wasted  hands  distorted  by 
toil  —  all  these  could  be  seen,  and  Desiree  saw 
them  all.  She  would  have  liked  to  be  strong 
enough  to  rise  and  kiss  that  lovely,  placid  brow, 
furrowed  by  WTinkles  which  did  not  mar  its 
beauty. 

In  striking  contrast  to  that  picture,  the  illustrious 


She  Promised  not  to   Try  Again.    277 

Delobelle  appeared  to  his  daughter  tlirouijli  the 
open  door  in  one  of  his  favorite  attitudes.  Seated 
before  the  Httle  white  cloth  that  bore  his  supper, 
with  his  body  at  an  angle  of  sixty-seven  and 
a  half  degrees,  he  was  eating  and  at  the  same  time 
running  through  a  pamphlet  which  rested  against 
the  carafe  in  front  of  him.  The  great  man  had 
just  come  in  —  in  fact,  the  sound  of  his  footsteps 
had  aroused  the  invalid,  and,  still  excited  by  the 
animation  and  sparkle  of  a  fine  performance,  he 
was  supping  alone,  gravely  and  solcmnl}',  arrayed 
in  his  new  frock  coat,  his  napkin  in  his  neck,  his 
hair  disciplined  with  a  slight  touch  of  the  curling- 
tongs. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Desir6e  noticed  the 
striking  lack  of  harmony  between  her  emaciated 
mother,  scantih'  clad  in  little  black  dresses  which 
made  her  look  even  thinner  and  more  haggard 
than  she  really  was,  and  her  happy,  well-fed,  idle, 
placid,  thoughtless  father.  At  a  glance  she  real- 
ized the  diftcrence  between  the  two  lives.  The 
circle  of  habits,  in  which  children  end  by  seeing 
outside  objects  indistinctl)*,  their  e}-es  being 
trained  to  its  special  light,  had  disappeared  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned.  Now  she  judged  her  par- 
ents from  a  distance,  as  if  she  had  insensibly 
moved  away  from  them.  That  clearness  of  vision 
at  the  last  hour  was  an  additional  source  of  suffer- 
ing. What  would  become  of  them  when  she  was 
no  longer  there?  luther  her  mother  would  work 
too  hard  and  would  kill  herself;  or  else  the  poor 
woman  would  be  obliged  to  cease  working  alto- 


278  Fromont  and  Risler. 

gather  and  that  selfish  husband,  forever  engrossed 
by  his  theatrical  ambition,  would  allow  them  both 
to  drift  gradually  into  abject  poverty,  that  black 
hole  which  widens  and  deepens  as  one  goes  down 
into  it. 

And  yet  he  was  not  a  bad  man,  he  had  proved 
it  to  them  many  and  many  a  time.  But  there  was 
a  far-reaching  blindness  which  nothing  had  ever 
succeeded  in  relieving.  Suppose  she  were  to  try? 
Suppose  that,  before  going  away  —  something  told 
her  that  she  would  go  very  soon  —  before  going 
away,  she  should  tear  away  the  thick  bandage 
that  the  poor  man  kept  over  his  eyes  wilfully  and 
by  force? 

Only  a  hand  as  light  and  loving  as  hers  could 
attempt  that  operation. 

Only  she  had  the  right  to  say  to  her  father : 

"  Earn  your  living.     Give  up  the  stage." 

Thereupon,  as  time  was  flying,  Desiree  Delo- 
belle  summoned  all  her  courage  and  called  softly : 

"  Papa  —  papa  —  " 

At  his  daughter's  first  summons,  the  great  man 
hurried  to  her  side.  There  had  been  that  evening 
a  "first  night"  at  the  Ambigu,  and  he  had  come 
home  intensely  excited,  electrified.  The  chande- 
liers, the  claque,  the  conversation  in  the  foyer,  all 
the  stimulating  details  upon  which  he  fed  his 
mania,  had  left  him  more  confirmed  than  ever  in 
his  illusions. 

He  entered  Desiree's  bedroom,  radiant  and 
superb,  very  erect,  his  lamp  in  his  hand  and  a 
camellia  in  his  buttonhole. 


She  Promised  uol  to   Try  Again.     279 

"  Good  evening,  Zizi,     Arc  n't  you  asleep?  " 

His  voice  had  a  joyous  intonation  that  produced 
a  strange  effect  amid  the  prcvaiHng  gloom. 

Desir^c  motioned  to  him  not  to  speak,  pointing 
to  her  sleeping  mother. 

"  Put  down  your  lamp,  —  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you." 

Her  voice,  broken  by  emotion,  impressed  him; 
and  so  did  her  eyes,  for  they  seemed  larger  than 
usual,  and  were  lighted  by  a  piercing  glance  that 
he  had  never  seen  in  them. 

He  approached  with  something  like  awe,  taking 
out  his  camellia  to  give  to  her,  with  his  mouth  in 
the  shape  of  a  "  little  apple,"  and  with  a  great 
squeaking  of  new  boots,  which  he  considered  very 
aristocratic.  His  bearing  was  clearly  embarrassed, 
a  result  doubtless  of  the  too  great  contrast  between 
the  brilliantly  lighted,  noisy  theatre  he  had  lately 
left  and  that  little  sick  room,  where  the  muffled 
sounds,  the  lowered  lights,  died  away  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  fever. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Bichette?  Do  you 
feel  any  worse?  " 

D6siree  replied  with  a  movement  of  her  little 
pale  face  that  she  felt  very  ill  and  that  she  wanted 
to  speak  to  him  very  close,  very  close.  When  the 
great  man  stood  by  her  pillow,  she  laid  her  burning 
hand  on  the  great  man's  arm  and  v/hispercd  in  his 
ear.  She  was  very  ill,  hopelessly  ill.  She  real- 
ized fully  that  she  had  not  long  to  live. 

"  Then,  father,  you  will  be  left  alone  with 
mamma.      Don't   tremble    like    that.      You    knew 


28o  Froniont  and  Risler. 

that  this  thing  must  come,  yes,  that  it  was  very 
near.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  this.  When  I  am 
gone,  I  am  terribly  afraid  mamma  won't  be  strong 
enough  to  support  the  family.  Just  see  how  pale 
and  exhausted  she  is." 

The  actor  looked  at  his  "  sainted  wife,"  and 
seemed  greatly  surprised  to  find  that  she  did  really 
look  so  badly.  Then  he  consoled  himself  with  the 
selfish  remark : 

"  She  never  was  very  strong." 

That  remark  and  the  tone  in  which  it  was  made 
angered  Desiree  and  strengthened  her  determina- 
tion. She  continued,  without  pity  for  the  actor's 
illusions : 

"  What  will  become  of  you  two  when  I  am  no 
longer  here?  Oh!  I  know  that  you  have  great 
hopes,  but  it  takes  them  a  long  while  to  come  to 
anything.  The  results  you  have  waited  for  so  long 
may  not  come  for  a  long  time  to  come ;  and  until 
then  what  will  you  do?  Listen  !  my  dear  father,  I 
would  not  willingly  hurt  you ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  at  your  age,  as  intelligent  as  you  are,  it  would 
be  easy  for  you  — I  am  sure  Monsieur  Risler  Ain6 
would  ask  nothing  better." 

She  spoke  slowly,  with  an  effort,  carefully  choos- 
ing her  words,  leaving  long  pauses  between  every 
two  sentences,  hoping  always  that  they  might  be 
filled  by  a  movement,  an  exclamation  from  her 
father.  But  the  actor  did  not  understand.  He 
listened,  he  stared  at  her  with  his  eyes  open  to 
their  fullest  extent,  feeling  vaguely  that  an  accusa- 
tion was  rising  up  against  him  from  that  innocent, 


She  Promised  not  to   Try  Again.    28 1 

inexorable,  childish  conscience;  he  did  not  yet 
know  what  it  was. 

"  I  think  that  you  would  do  well,"  pursued 
Desiree,  timidly,  "  I  think  that  you  would  do  well 
to  give  up  —  " 

"  Eh  ?  —  what  ?  —  what 's  that  ?  " 

She  paused  when  she  saw  the  effect  of  her  words. 
The  old  actor's  mobile  features  were  suddenly  con- 
tracted under  the  lash  of  violent  despair;  and 
tears,  genuine  tears  which  he  did  not  even  think 
of  concealing  behind  his  hand  as  they  do  on  the 
stage,  filled  his  eyes  but  did  not  flow,  so  tightly 
did  his  agony  clutch  him  by  the  throat.  The  poor 
devil  began  to  understand.  And  so,  of  the  only 
two  admirations  which  had  remained  faithful  to 
him,  one  was  turning  its  back  upon  his  glory! 
His  daughter  no  longer  believed  in  him.  It  was 
impossible.  He  had  misunderstood,  he  had  not 
heard  aright.  What  would  he  do  well  to  give  up, 
come,  let  us  see.  But  in  face  of  the  unspoken 
prayer,  of  that  glance  imploring  mercy,  Desiree 
had  not  the  courage  to  finish.  Moreover,  the  poor 
child  was  at  the  end  of  her  strength  and  her  life. 

She  murmured  twice  or  thrice: 

"  To  give  up  —  to  give  up  —  " 

Then  her  little  head  fell  back  upon  the  pillow, 
and  she  died  without  having  dared  to  tell  him 
what  he  would  do  well  to  give  up. 

The  woman  Delobelle  is  dead,  Monsieur  le 
Commissairc.  Did  I  not  say  that  she  would  never 
try  again?     This  time  death  has  spared  her  the 


282  Fromoul  and  Risler. 

long  walk  and  the  trouble  ;  it  came  itself  and  took 
her.  And  now,  unbelieving  man,  four  strong 
spruce  boards  nailed  solidly  together  answer  to 
you  for  that  child's  promise.  She  promised  not  to 
try  again,  she  will  never  try  again. 

The  little  lame  girl  is  dead.  That  is  the  news  of 
the  hour  in  the  Francs-Bourgeois  quarter,  which 
was  deeply  stirred  by  that  mournful  occurrence. 
Not  that  Desiree  was  very  popular  there,  for  she 
never  went  out  and  only  occasionally  showed  at 
the  window  her  hermit-like  pallor  and  the  dark- 
ringed  eyes  of  the  untiring  working-girl.  But  the 
burial  of  the  illustrious  Delobclle's  daughter  could 
not  fail  to  be  attended  by  many  actors,  and  Paris 
adores  those  people.  It  loves  to  see  those  idols  of 
the  evening  pass  through  the  streets  in  broad  day- 
light; to  study  their  real  features,  away  from  the 
glamour  of  the  footlights.  And  so,  on  that  morning, 
while  white  draperies  were  being  hung  with  much 
hammering  under  the  little  narrow  doorway  on 
Rue  de  Braque,  the  sidewalk  and  the  street  were 
crowded  with  sightseers. 

We  must  do  the  guild  of  actors  the  justice  to  say 
that  they  are  attached  to  one  another,  or  at  all 
events  are  held  together  by  a  fraternal  feeling,  a 
professional  bond  which  brings  them  together  on 
all  occasions  of  external  manifestations:  balls,  con- 
certs, actors'  dinners,  funerals. 

Although  Delobelle  was  no  longer  on  the  stage, 
although  his  name  had  disappeared  altogether 
from  newspaper  criticisms  and  posters  more  than 
fifteen   years  before,  a   little    notice  of  two    lines 


She  Promised  not  to   Try  Again.    2.S3 

in  an  obscure  theatrical  journal  was  sufificient: 
M,  Delobelle,  formerly  leading  man  at  the  theatres 
of  Mcta  and  Alencon,  has  had  the  misfortune,  etc. 
Those  who  wish  to  attend  zvill  meet,  etc.  From 
every  corner  of  Paris  and  the  suburbs  the  actors 
came  in  crowds  at  that  summons. 

Famous  or  not  famous,  unknown  or  renowned, 
they  were  all  there,  —  those  who  had  played  with 
Dclobclle  in  the  provinces,  those  who  met  him 
in  the  actors'  cafes,  where  he  was  like  one  of  the 
faces  which  one  sees  every  day,  to  which  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  give  a  name,  but  which  one  remembers  be- 
cause of  the  surroundings  in  which  one  sees  them 
and  of  which  they  seem  to  be  a  part ;  then  there 
were  provincial  actors,  passing  through  Paris,  who 
came  there  to  "flush"  a  manager  and  secure  a 
good  engagement. 

And  all  alike,  the  obscure  and  the  illustrious, 
Parisians  and  provincials,  with  but  one  absorbing 
thought,  to  see  their  names  mentioned  by  some 
newspaper  in  a  description  of  the  funeral.  For  to 
those  creatures  of  vanity  all  kinds  of  publicity  seem 
desirable.  They  are  so  afraid  that  the  public  will 
forget  them,  that  the  moment  they  leave  the  stage 
they  feel  that  they  must  make  people  talk  about 
them,  must  resort  to  any  means  to  recall  themselves 
to  the  memory  of  fickle,  ever-changing  Parisian 
fashion. 

As  parly  as  nine  o'clock  all  the  common  people 
of  the  Marais  —  that  gossip-loving  province  —  were 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  actors,  at  windows  and 
doors  or  in  the  streets.     The  working-girls  looked 


284  Fromont  and  Risler. 

out  through  the  dusty  windows  of  the  shops,  the 
petty  bourgeois  from  behind  their  plaited  curtains, 
housekeepers  with  their  baskets  on  their  arms, 
apprentices  with  bundles  on  their  heads. 

At  last  they  arrived,  on  foot  or  in  carriages, 
singly  or  in  parties.  They  could  be  recognized  by 
their  clean  shaven  faces  with  a  bluish  tinge  on  the 
chin  and  cheeks,  by  their  affected  manner,  too  em- 
phatic or  too  simple,  by  their  conventional  gestures, 
and,  above  all,  by  that  overflow  of  sentiment  which 
results  from  the  exaggeration  required  by  the  op- 
tical conditions  of  the  stage.  The  different  ways 
in  which  those  worthy  fellows  manifested  their 
emotion  on  that  painful  occasion  were  truly  inter- 
esting to  watch.  Every  appearance  in  the  dark 
little  paved  courtyard  of  the  house  of  death,  was 
like  an  appearance  on  the  stage,  and  varied  accord- 
ing to  the  speciality  of  the  actor.  The  great  lead- 
■Jng  parts,  with  fateful  air  and  wrinkled  brow,  one 
and  all  began  upon  their  arrival  by  brushing  away 
with  the  end  of  the  glove  a  tear  which  they  could 
no  longer  restrain  in  the  corner  of  the  eye,  then 
sighed,  glanced  at  the  sky,  and  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  stage,  that  is  to  say  the  courtyard,  hat  on 
hip,  with  a  slight  tapping  of  the  left  foot  whicli 
assisted  them  to  restrain  their  grief:  "  Be  still,  m}- 
heart,  be  still."  The  coniiqiics,  on  the  other  hand, 
"  carried  it  off"  with  simplicity.  They  accosted 
one  another  with  a  compassionate  air  of  good- 
fellowship,  called  one  another  ma  paiiv*  vicille} 
with  earnest,  nervous  hand-shakes,  a  trembling  of 
1  Lit.,  "  my  poor  old  girl." 


She  Promised  not  to   Try  Again.    285 

the  flabby  cheeks,  a  drooping  at  the  corner  of  the 
eyes  and  hps  which  reduced  their  emotion  to  the 
trivial  level  of  farce. 

All  sorts  of  mannerisms,  and  all  equally  sincere. 

As  soon  as  they  appeared,  these  gentlemen 
divided  into  two  camps.  The  celebrated  actors 
glanced  disdainfully  at  the  unknown,  shabby  Rob- 
ricarts,  whose  envy  flung  back  their  contempt  in 
innumerable  insulting  remarks  :  "Have  you  noticed 
how  So-and-so  has  aged?  He  won't  be  able  to 
hold  his  parts  long." 

The  illustrious  Delobelle  went  back  and  forth 
between  the  two  groups,  dressed  in  black,  neatly 
gloved  in  black,  with  red  eyes  and  clenched  teeth, 
distributing  silent  hand-clasps.  The  poor  devil's 
heart  was  full  of  tears,  but  that  did  not  prevent  his 
having  his  hair  curled  and  arranged  01  doni-Cnpoiit 
for  the  occasion.  A  strange  compound.  No  one 
could  have  said,  after  reading  his  heart,  at  what 
point  genuine  grief  ended  and  the  affectation  of 
grief  began,  they  were  so  inextricably  mingled. — 
Among  the  actors  there  were  several  other  persons 
of  our  acquaintance.  Monsieur  Chebe,  more  im- 
portant than  ever,  hovered  assiduously  about  the 
popular  actors,  while  Madame  Chebe  bore  the  poor 
mother  company  upstairs.  Sidonie  had  been  un- 
able to  come ;  but  Risler  Ain6  was  there,  almost 
as  deeply  moved  —  good  Risler,  the  friend  in  need, 
who  had  paid  all  the  expenses  of  the  sad  ceremony, 
so  that  the  mourning  carriages  were  superb,  with 
silver-fringed  draperies,  and  the  bier  was  strewn 
with   white   roses  and   violets.     In  the  wretched. 


2^6  Fromont  and  Risler. 

dismal  hall  opening  on  Rue  de  Braque,  those  mod- 
est white  decorations  under  the  tapers,  those  trem- 
bling flowers  sprinkled  with  holy  water,  bore  a 
striking  resemblance  to  the  destiny  of  that  poor 
child,  whose  faintest  smiles  had  always  been 
drenched  with  tears. 

The  procession  moved  slowly  through  the  winding 
streets.  At  the  head  stalked  Delobelle,  shaken  by 
sobs,  almost  as  deeply  moved  on  his  own  account,  a 
poor  father  burying  his  child,  as  on  his  dead  daugh- 
ter's, and,  in  the  background  of  his  sincere  sorrow, 
his  ever-present  vain  personality,  like  a  stone  in  the 
bed  of  a  stream,  unmoved  by  the  rushing  waters. 
The  pomp  and  parade  of  the  ceremony,  the  black 
line  which  blocked  travel  in  the  streets  as  it  passed, 
the  draped  carriages,  the  Rislers'  little  coupe  which 
Sidonie  had  sent  to  give  tone  to  the  occasion, —  it 
all  flattered  and  excited  him,  do  what  he  would. 
Unable  to  contain  himself,  he  turned  to  Robricart, 
who  was  walking  beside  him  : 

"  Did  you  notice?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

The  unhappy  father,  wiping  his  eyes,  murmured, 
not  without  a  touch  of  pride  : 

"  There  are  two  private  carriages." 

Dear  little  Zizi,  so  kindly  and  so  simple  !  All 
that  ostentation  of  sorrow,  all  those  solemn-faced 
mourners  were  hardly  suited  to  her. 

But  happily  Mamma  Delobelle,  whom  they  had 
been  unable  to  keep  from  watching  her  little  one's 
departure,  was  standing  behind  the  drawn  blinds 
of  the  work-room  window. 


She  Promised  not  to   Try  Again.     29>j 

"Adieu!  adieu!"  said  the  mother  in  an  under- 
tone, ahnost  to  herself,  wringint^  her  hands  with  the 
senseless    gesture   of  a   dotard    or  a  madwoman. 

Softly  as  those  farewell  words  were  said,  Desiree 
Delobelle  must  have  heard  them. 


288  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 


BOOK    FOURTH. 


THE   FANCIFUL   LEGEND   OF   THE   LITTLE 
BLUE   MAN. 

You  may  believe  me  or  not,  as  you  choose,  but  I 
am  a  firm  believer  in  the  little  blue  man.  Not 
that  I  have  ever  seen  him ;  but  a  friend  of  mine, 
a  poet,  in  whom  I  have  every  confidence,  has  fre- 
quently told  me  that  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  that  strange  little  imp  one  night,  and  this  is 
how  it  happened. 

My  friend  had  been  weak  enough  to  give  his 
tailor  a  note ;  and  like  all  men  of  imagination 
under  similar  circumstances,  as  soon  as  his  signa- 
ture was  given  he  had  supposed  that  he  was  rid 
of  his  debt  forever,  and  all  thought  of  the  note 
passed  from  his  mind.  Now  it  happened  that  our 
poet  was  awakened  with  a  start  one  night  by  a 
strange  noise  in  his  chimney.  He  thought  at 
first  that  it  was  some  cold-blooded  little  sparrow 
seeking  the  w^armth  from  the  dying  fire,  or  a 
weathercock  annoyed  by  a  change  in  the  wind. 
But  after  a  moment,  as  the  noise  became  more  dis- 
tinct, he  clearly  distinguished  the  jingling  of  a  bag 
of  gold-pieces   mingled   with   a  vague   rattling   of 


TJie  Fanciful  Lcgejid.  289 

chains.  At  the  same  time  he  heard  a  shrill  little 
voice,  like  a  locomotive  whistle  in  the  distance, 
clear  as  the  crowing  of  a  rooster,  shout  to  him  from 
the  roof:   "  The  note  !  the  note  !  " 

"Ah!  my  God!  my  note!"  said  the  poor  fel- 
low, suddenly  remembering  that  the  document 
he  had  given  his  tailor  fell  due  in  a  week;  and  he 
did  nothing  until  morning  but  toss  and  turn,  seek- 
ing sleep  in  every  corner  of  his  bed  and  finding 
only  the  thought  of  that  accursed  note  of  hand. 
The  next  night  and  the  next  and  every  night 
thereafter,  he  was  awakened  at  the  same  time  and 
in  the  same  way ;  the  same  jingling  of  money,  the 
rattling  of  a  chain,  and  the  little  voice  crying  with 
a  sneering  laugh :  "  The  note  !  the  note !  "  The 
worst  part  of  it  was  that,  as  the  day  when  the  note 
was  to  mature  came  nearer  and  nearer,  the  voice 
became  shriller  and  fiercer,  more  full  of  threats  of 
execution  and  bankruptcy. 

Ill-fated  poet !  your  fatiguing  labors  of  the  day, 
your  scouring  of  the  city  to  obtain  money,  were 
not  enough,  it  seems ;  to  cap  the  climax,  that  cruel 
little  voice  must  come  and  rob  you  of  sleep  and 
rest.  To  whom  did  that  fantastic  voice  belong,  in 
God's  name?  What  malicious  spirit  could  take 
pleasure  in  martyrizing  him  thus?  lie  determined 
to  set  his  mind  at  rest.  Accordingly  one  night, 
instead  of  going  to  bed,  he  put  out  his  light, 
opened  his  window,  and  waited. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  in  his  capacity  of  l}Tic 

poet,  my  friend  lived  way  up  in  the  air,  on  a  level 

with  the  roofs.     For  several  hours  he  saw  nothing 
19 


290  Fromont  and  Risler, 

but  that  picturesque  expanse  of  roofs  packed 
closely  together,  and  sloping  toward  each  other, 
through  which  streets  ran  in  all  directions  like 
great  precipices,  and  the  even  surface  of  which 
was  broken  capriciously  by  chimneys  and  gable 
ends  notched  by  a  ray  of  moonlight.  It  was  like 
a  seccnd  city  above  dark  and  slumbering  Paris,  an 
aeria/  city  suspended  in  mid-air  between  the  black 
void  below  and  the  dazzling  light  of  the  moon. 

M  /  friend  waited,  waited  a  long  while.  At  last, 
abo"«t  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  just  as 
all  the  steeples  rising  out  of  the  darkness  were 
passing  the  hour  from  one  to  another,  he  heard  a 
light  step  close  at  hand  running  over  the  tiles  and 
slates,  and  a  shrill  little  voice  called  into  the  chim- 
siey:  "The  note!  the  note!"  Thereupon,  by 
leaning  out  a  little,  my  poet  spied  the  villainous 
little  man-tormenting  imp  who  had  spoiled  his 
sleep  for  a  week.  He  could  not  tell  me  anything 
positively  as  to  his  size;  the  moon  plays  you 
such  tricks  by  the  fantastic  dimensions  it  gives 
to  objects  and  their  shadows.  He  noticed  only 
that  the  strange  devilkin  was  dressed  like  the 
messengers  from  the  Bank,  blue  coat  with  silver 
buttons,  crush  hat,  a  sergeant's  stripes  on  his 
sleeve,  and  that  he  had  a  leather  wallet  almost 
as  big  as  himself  under  his  arm,  the  key  to  which 
hung  at  the  end  of  a  long  chain  and  jangled 
madly  at  every  step,  like  the  bag  of  money  which 
he  waved  in  the  other  hand.  Thus  it  was  that 
my  friend  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  little  blue 
fellow,  as  he  flitted   swiftly  across  a  moonbeam; 


The  Fanciful  Legend.  291 

for  he  seemed  very  hurried,  full  of  business,  cleared 
the  streets  at  one  leap  and  ran  from  chimney  to 
chimney,  c^liding  over  the  roofs. 

That  infernal  little  man  has  such  a  numerous 
clientage,  you  see.  There  arc  so  many  tradesmen 
in  Paris,  so  many  men  who  dread  the  end  of  the 
month,  so  many  poor  devils  who  have  signed  a 
note  of  hand  or  written  the  word  "  accepted " 
across  a  draft.  To  all  those  people  the  little  blue 
man  gave  as  he  passed  his  warning  cry.  He 
uttered  it  over  factories,  at  that  hour  lifeless  and 
silent,  over  great  financial  houses,  sleeping  amid 
the  luxurious  silence  of  their  gardens,  over  the 
houses  of  five  and  six  floors,  the  uneven,  incon- 
gruous roofs  that  are  massed  together  in  the  heart 
of  the  poorer  quarters.  "  The  note  !  the  note  !  " 
From  end  to  end  of  the  city,  in  that  crystal  atmos- 
phere which  intense  cold  and  bright  moonlight 
produce  in  high  places,  the  little  strident  voice 
rang  out  pitilessly.  Wherever  it  was  heard  it 
banished  sleep,  awoke  anxiety,  wearied  the  mind 
and  the  eyes,  and  sent  a  sort  of  vague  shudder  of 
unrest  and  insomnia  from  the  attic  to  the  cellar 
of  Parisian  houses. 

Think  what  you  will  of  this  legend,  at  all  events 
here  is  something  of  which  I  can  affirm  the  truth 
in  support  of  my  poet's  talc :  one  night,  near  the 
end  of  January,  old  Sigismond  Planus,  cashier  of 
the  house  of  Fromont  Jeune  and  Risler  Ainc,  was 
awakened  with  a  start  in  his  little  house  at  Mont- 
rouge  by  the  same  teasing  voice,  the  same  rattling 
of  chains,  followed  by  that  fatal  cry: 


292  Fromont  and  Risler, 

"The  note!" 

"  That  is  true,"  thought  the  worthy  man,  sitting 
up  in  bed ;  "  day  after  to-morrow  will  be  the  last 
day  of  the  month.  And  I  have  the  courage  to 
sleep !  " 

In  truth,  a  considerable  sum  of  money  must  be 
raised :  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  be  paid  on 
two  obligations,  and  at  a  moment  when,  for  the 
first  time  in  thirty  years,  the  strong-box  of  the 
house  of  Fromont  was  absolutely  empty.  What 
was  to  be  done?  Sigismond  had  tried  several 
times  to  speak  to  Fromont  Jeune,  but  he  seemed 
to  shun  the  burdensome  responsibility  of  business, 
and  when  he  walked  through  the  offices  was  always 
in  a  hurry,  feverishly  excited,  and  seemed  neither 
to  see  nor  hear  anything  about  him.  He  answered 
the  old  cashier's  anxious  questions,  gnawing  his 
moustache : 

"  All  right,  all  right,  my  old  Planus.  Don't  dis- 
turb yourself,  I  will  look  into  it."  And  as  he  said 
it  he  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  else,  to 
be  a  thousand  leagues  away  from  his  surroundings. 
It  was  rumored  in  the  factory,  where  his  liaison 
with  Madame  Risler  was  no  longer  a  secret  to 
anybody,  that  Sidonie  deceived  him,  made  him  very 
unhappy;  and,  indeed,  his  mistress's  whims  wor- 
ried him  much  more  than  his  cashier's  anxiety. 
As  for  Risler,  no  one  ever  saw  him;  he  passed  his 
days  shut  up  in  a  room  under  the  eaves,  overseeing 
the  mysterious,  interminable  manufacture  of  his 
machines. 

This  indifference  on  the  part  of  the  employers 


The  Fanciful  Legend.  293 

to  the  affairs  of  the  factory,  this  absohite  lack  of 
oversight,  had  led  by  slow  degrees  to  general 
demoralization.  Workmen  and  clerks  did  as  they 
pleased,  came  late  to  their  work  and  disappeared 
early,  with  no  thought  of  the  old  bell,  which,  after 
regulating  the  hours  of  work  so  many  years, 
seemed  now  to  sound  the  alarm  of  impending  dis- 
aster. Some  business  was  still  done,  because  an 
established  house  will  go  on  alone  for  years  by 
force  of  the  first  impetus ;  but  what  ruin,  what 
chaos  beneath  that  apparent  prosperity  ! 

Sigismond  knew  it  better  than  any  one,  and  that 
is  why  the  little  blue  man's  cry  had  roused  him  so 
quickly  from  his  sleep.  As  if  to  cee  his  way  more 
clearly  amid  the  multitude  of  painful  thoughts 
which  whirled  madly  through  his  brain,  the  cashier 
lighted  his  candle,  sat  down  on  his  bed,  and 
thought:  "Where  were  they  to  find  that  hundred 
thousand  francs?"  To  be  sure  there  was  more 
than  that  owing  to  the  firm.  There  were  old 
accounts  that  had  been  dragging  along  for  years, 
balances  due  from  the  Prochassons  and  others ; 
but  what  a  humiliation  it  would  be  for  him  to  go 
about  collecting  all  those  ancient  bills  !  That  sort 
of  thing  is  not  done  in  the  higher  business  circles; 
it  is  better  suited  to  petty  retail  concerns.  And 
yet  even  that  would  be  preferable  to  a  protest. 
Oh !  the  thought  that  the  messenger  from  the 
Bank  would  come  to  his  grating  with  a  self-assured, 
confident  air  and  tranquilly  place  his  notes  on  the 
shelf,  and  that  he,  Planus,  Sigismond  Planus, 
would  be  obliged  to  say  to  him : 


294  Frojuont  and  Risler. 

"Take  the  notes  back.  I  have  no  funds  to 
meet  them." 

No,  no  !  That  was  not  possible.  Any  sort  of 
humiliation  was  preferable  to  that. 

"  Well  it 's  decided.  I  will  go  to-morrow," 
sighed  the  poor  cashier. 

And  while  he  tossed  about  in  torture,  unable  to 
close  an  eye  until  morning,  the  blue  man,  continu- 
ing his  rounds,  shook  his  bag  of  money  and  his 
chain  over  an  attic  on  Boulevard  Beaumarchais  to 
which  the  illustrious  Delobelle  had  moved  with  his 
wife  after  Desiree's  death. 

Alas!  the  little  lame  girl  had  not  gone  astray  in 
her  predictions.  When  she  had  gone,  Mamma 
Delobelle  was  not  long  able  to  continue  her  work 
upon  the  birds  and  insects  for  ornament.  Her 
eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears,  her  old  hands 
trembled  so  that  she  could  not  mount  the  hum- 
ming-birds straight,  and  despite  all  her  efforts,  their 
faces  retained  a  piteous,  grieved  expression.  She 
was  obliged  to  give  up.  Thereupon  the  brave 
woman  took  up  sewing.  She  mended  laces  and 
embroideries,  and  gradually  descended  to  the  level 
of  a  seamstress.  But  her  constantly  decreasing 
earnings  hardly  sufficed  for  the  most  necessary 
household  expenses,  and  Delobelle,  whose  exact- 
ing profession  of  actor  ///  partibns  compelled  him 
to  spend  money  freely,  was  driven  to  incur  debts. 
He  owed  his  tailor,  his  bootmaker,  his  shirtmaker ; 
but  what  disturbed  him  most  were  the  famous 
breakfasts  he  had  eaten  at  the  cafe  on  the  boule- 
vard, in  his  managerial  days. 


The  Fanciful  Legend.  295 

The  bill  amounted  to  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs,  payable  at  the  end  of  January,  and  there 
was  no  hope  of  further  renewal;  so  that  the 
little  blue  man's  cry  sent  a  shiver  throui^h  his 
every  limb. 

Only  one  day  more  before  it  was  due  !  Only  one 
day  more  to  procure  the  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs !  If  he  failed  to  procure  them,  everything 
in  their  apartment  would  be  sold.  Sold  the  poor 
furniture,  never  renewed  since  the  beginning  of 
their  housekeeping — insufficient,  to  be  sure,  and 
inconvenient,  but  dear  by  reason  of  the  memories 
awakened  by  its  frayed  edges,  by  the  signs  of  long 
usage  on  certain  corners.  Sold  the  long  table  of 
the  birds  and  insects  for  ornament,  at  one  end 
of  which  he  had  supped  for  twenty  years.  Sold 
Zizi's  great  armchair,  at  which  they  could  not  look 
without  tears,  and  which  seemed  to  have  retained 
something  of  their  darling,  her  movements,  her 
attitudes,  the  prostration  of  her  long  days  of  toil 
and  dreaming.  It  would  surely  kill  Mamma  Delo- 
belle  to  see  all  those  precious  souvenirs  taken 
away. 

As  he  thought  of  that,  the  unlucky  strolling 
player,  whose  dense  selfishness  did  not  always 
shield  him  from  the  stings  of  remorse,  tossed  and 
turned  in  his  bed,  heaved  profound  sighs;  and  all 
the  while  he  had  before  his  eyes  D6siree's  little 
pale  face,  with  its  imploring,  affectionate  expres- 
sion, which  she  turned  anxiously  toward  him  as 
she  died,  asking  him  under  her  breath  to  give  up  — 
to  give  up  —    What  could  it  have  been  that  she 


296  Fromout  and  Risler, 

wanted  her  father  to  give  up?  She  had  died 
before  she  succeeded  in  telling  him  ;  but  Delobelle 
had  partly  understood  none  the  less,  and  since 
then  uneasiness  and  doubt  had  found  their  way 
into  that  pitiless  nature ;  to-night  they  added 
cruelly  to  the  burden  of  his  pecuniary  perplexities. 

"  The  note  !  the  note  !  " 

This  time  it  was  Monsieur  Chebe's  chimney 
down  which  the  little  blue  man  hurled  his  fateful 
cry  as  he  passed. 

It  should  be  said  that  Monsieur  Chebe  had 
recently  embarked  in  some  considerable  enter- 
prise, a  "  standing  "  business,  very  vague,  exces- 
sively vague,  which  consumed  a  deal  of  money. 
On  several  different  occasions  Risler  and  Sidonie 
had  been  obliged  to  pay  their  father's  debts,  on 
the  express  condition  that  he  would  remain  in 
retirement,  that  he  would  let  business  alone ;  but 
these  constant  plunges  were  necessary  to  his  exist- 
ence. He  took  the  plunge  each  time  with  renewed 
courage,  with  a  more  restless  activity.  When  he 
had  no  money.  Monsieur  Chebe  gave  his  signature  ; 
indeed,  he  deplorably  abused  that  signature  of  his, 
always  relying  on  the  profits  of  the  undertaking  to 
meet  his  engagements.  The  devil  of  it  was  that 
the  profits  never  appeared,  whereas  the  notes  he 
had  signed,  after  roving  from  one  end  of  Paris  to 
the  other  for  months,  returned  to  the  house  with 
despairing  punctuality,  all  black  with  hieroglyphics 
picked  up  on  their  travels. 

As  it  happened,  his  January  engagements  were 
very  heavy,  and  when  he  heard  the  little  blue  man 


The  Fanciful  Legend.  297 

pass,  he  suddenly  remembered  that  he  had  not  a 
sou  with  which  to  meet  them.  Death  !  Me  must 
needs  go  once  more  and  humble  himself  before 
that  Risler,  run  the  risk  of  being  refused,  confess 
that  he  had  broken  his  word.  The  poor  devil's 
agony  as  he  thought  of  those  things  was  heightened 
by  the  silence  of  night,  when  the  eye  is  unoccupied, 
when  the  mind  has  nothing  to  distract  it,  and  by 
the  horizontal  position  which,  by  dint  of  making 
the  whole  body  helpless,  abandons  the  mind,  with- 
out means  of  defence,  to  its  terrors  and  its  anxieties. 
Again  and  again  Monsieur  Chebc  lighted  his  lamp, 
picked  up  his  newspaper  and  struggled  vainly  to 
read,  to  the  vast  displeasure  of  good  Madame 
Chebe,  who  groaned  softly  and  turned  toward  the 
wall  in  order  not  to  see  the  light. 

And  meanwhile  the  infernal  little  blue  man, 
enchanted  with  his  mischief-making,  went  his  way 
with  his  sneering  laugh  to  jingle  his  bag  of  money 
and  his  chain  a  little  farther  on.  Behold  him  on 
Rue  des  Vieilles-Haudriettes,  above  a  great  factory 
where  all  the  windows  are  dark  save  a  single  one 
on  the  first  floor  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 

Notwithstanding  the  late  hour,  Georges  Fromont 
had  not  yet  retired.  He  was  sitting  by  the  fire, 
with  his  head  in  his  hands,  in  the  blind  and  dumb 
concentration  due  to  irreparable  misfortune,  think- 
ing of  Sidonie,  of  that  horrible  Sidonie  who  was 
asleep  at  that  moment  on  the  floor  above.  She 
was  positively  driving  him  mad.  She  was  false  to 
him,  he  was  sure  of  it,  —  she  was  false  to  him  with 
the  Toulousan  tenor,  that  Cazabon,  alias  Cazaboni, 


29^^  Fromont  and  Risler. 

whom  Madame  Dobson  had  brought  to  the  house. 
For  a  long  time  he  had  implored  her  not  to  receive 
that  man;  but  Sidonie  would  not  listen  to  him, 
and  on  that  very  day,  speaking  of  a  grand  ball  she 
was  about  to  give,  she  had  declared  explicitly  that 
nothing  should  prevent  her  inviting  her  tenor. 

"  Then  he 's  your  lover !  "  Georges  had  ex- 
claimed angrily,  his  eyes  gazing  into  hers. 

She  had  not  denied  it ;  she  had  not  even  turned 
her  eyes  away.  But,  still  with  the  utmost  coolness, 
she  had  informed  him,  with  her  wicked  little  smile, 
that  she  admitted  no  man's  right  to  judge  or  to 
interfere  with  her  actions,  that  she  was  free,  that 
she  proposed  to  remain  free  and  not  to  allow  him 
to  tyrannize  over  her  any  more  than  Risler.  The}' 
had  passed  an  hour  so,  in  her  carriage,  with  the 
shades  lowered,  disputing,  insulting  each  other, 
almost  fighting. 

And  to  think  that  he  had  sacrificed  everything 
to  that  woman,  —  his  fortune,  his  honor,  even  his 
lovely  Claire,  who  lay  sleeping  with  her  child  in 
the  adjoining  room  —  a  whole  lifetime  of  happiness 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  which  he  had  spurned  for 
that  vile  creature  !  Now  she  had  admitted  that 
she  did  not  love  him,  that  she  loved  another.  And 
he,  the  coward,  still  longed  for  her.  In  heaven's 
name  what  potion  had  she  given  him? 

Carried    away    by    indignation    that    made     the 

blood  boil  in  his  veins,  Georges  Fromont  started 

-  from   his  armchair   and   strode   feverishly  up  and 

down  the  room,  his  footsteps  echoing  in  the  silence 

of  the  sleeping  house  like  living  insomnia.     The 


The  Fanciful  Legend.  299 

other  was  asleep  upstairs.  She  could  sleep  by 
fav^or  of  her  heedless,  remorseless  nature.  Perhaps 
too  she  was  thinking  of  her  Cazaboni. 

When  that  thought  passed  through  his  mind, 
Georges  had  a  mad  longing  to  go  up,  to  wake 
Risler,  to  tell  him  everything  and  destroy  himself 
with  her.  Really  that  deluded  husband  was  too 
idiotic  !  Why  did  he  not  watch  her  more  closely? 
She  was  pretty  enough,  yes,  and  vicious  enough 
too  for  every  precaution  to  be  taken  with  her. 

And  it  was  while  he  was  struggling  amid  such 
cruel  and  unfruitful  reflections  as  these  that  the 
little  blue  man's  cry  of  alarm  suddenly  rang  out 
above  the  whistling  of  the  wind. 

"  The  notes  !  the  notes  !  " 

The  miserable  wretch !  Tn  his  wrath  he  had 
entirely  forgotten  them.  And  }'et  he  had  long 
watched  the  approach  of  that  terrible  last  day  of 
January.  How  many  times,  between  two  assigna- 
tions, when  his  mind,  free  for  a  moment  from 
thoughts  of  Sidonie,  recurred  to  his  business,  to 
the  realities  of  life  —  how  many  times  had  he  said 
to  himself:  "That  day  will  be  the  end  of  ever>'- 
thing !  "  But  as  with  all  those  who  live  in  the 
delirium  of  intoxication,  his  cowardice  convinced 
him  that  it  was  too  late  to  mend  matters,  and  he 
returned  more  quickly  and  more  determinedly  to 
his  evil  courses,  in  order  to  forget,  to  divert  his 
thoughts. 

But  now  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  divert  his 
thoughts.  He  saw  the  impending  disaster  clearly, 
in    its    full     meaning;      and     Sigismond     Planus's 


300  Fromont  and  Risler. 

wrinkled,  solemn  face  rose  before  him  with  its 
sharply-cut  features,  whose  absence  of  expression 
softened  their  "harshness,  and  his  light  German- 
Swiss  eyes,  which  had  haunted  him  for  many 
weeks  with  their  impassive  stare. 

Well,  no,  he  had  not  the  hundred  thousand 
francs,  nor  did  he  know  where  to  get  them.  In 
the  past  six  months  he  had  played  heavily  and 
lost  enormous  sums,  in  his  effort  to  gratify  his 
mistress's  ruinous  whims.  In  addition  to  that, 
there  had  been  the  failure  of  a  banker,  and  that 
inexorable  balance-sheet.  Nothing  was  left  but 
the  factory,  and  in  what  a  condition ! 

Where  was  he  to  turn  now  ;  what  could  he 
do? 

The  crisis  which,  a  few  hours  before,  seemed  to 
him  a  chaos,  an  eddying  whirl  in  which  he  could 
see  nothing  distinctly  and  whose  very  confusion 
was  a  source  of  hope,  appeared  to  him  at  that 
moment  with  appalling  distinctness.  An  empty 
cash-box,  closed  doors,  notes  protested,  ruin. 
That  is  what  he  saw  whichever  way  he  turned. 
And  when,  on  top  of  all  the  rest,  came  the  thought 
of  Sidonie's  treachery,  the  wretched,  desperate 
man,  finding  nothing  to  cling  to  in  that  shipwreck, 
suddenly  uttered  a  sob,  a  cry  of  agony,  as  if  ap- 
pealing for  help  to  some  higher  power. 

"  Georges,  Georges,  it 's  I.    What  is  the  matter?  " 

His  wife  stood  before  him,  his  wife  who  now 
waited  for  him  every  night,  watching  anxiously  for 
his  return  from  the  Club,  for  she  still  believed  that 
he  passed  his  evenings  there.     Seeing  her  husband 


TJic  Fanciful  Legend.  301 

change,  grow  more  depressed  day  by  day,  Claire 
fancied  that  he  must  be  in  great  trouble  concerning 
money,  probably  on  account  of  losses  at  play. 
She  had  been  told  that  he  played  a  great  deal, 
and  notwithstanding  the  indifference  with  which  he 
treated  her,  she  was  anxious  for  him,  and  longed 
to  have  him  make  her  his  confidant,  give  her  an 
opportunity  to  show  her  generosity  and  affection. 
That  night  she  had  heard  him  walking  very  late  in 
his  room.  As  her  little  daughter  had  a  severe 
cough  and  required  her  care  every  moment,  she 
had  divided  her  solicitude  between  the  child's  suf- 
fering and  the  father's,  and  had  lain  there,  listening 
to  every  sound,  in  one  of  those  tearful,  sorrowful 
vigils  in  which  women  summon  all  the  courage 
they  possess  to  enable  them  to  support  the  heavy 
burden  of  manifold  duty.  At  last  the  child  fell 
asleep,  and  Claire,  hearing  the  father  sob,  ran  to 
him. 

Oh !  what  boundless,  though  tardy  remorse 
overwhelmed  him  when  he  saw  her  before  him,  so 
deeply  moved,  so  lovely  and  so  loving  !  Yes,  she 
was  in  very  truth  the  true  companion,  the  faithful 
friend.  How  could  he  have  deserted  her?  For  a 
long,  long  time  he  wept  upon  her  shoulder,  unable 
to  speak.  And  it  was  fortunate  that  he  did  not 
speak,  for  he  would  have  told  her  all,  all.  The 
unhappy  man  felt  the  need  of  pouring  out  his  heart, 
—  an  irresistible  longing  to  accuse  himself,  to  ask 
forgiveness,  to  lessen  the  weight  of  the  remorse 
that  was  crushing  him. 

She  spared  him  the  pain  of  uttering  a  word : 


302  Froinont  and  R  is  lev. 

"You  have  been  gambling,  have  you  not?  You 
have  lost  —  lost  heavily?" 

He  moved  his  head  affirmatively ;  then,  when  he 
was  able  to  speak,  he  confessed  that  he  must  have 
a  hundred  thousand  francs  for  the  day  after  the 
morrow,  and  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  obtain 
them. 

She  did  not  reproach  him.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  who,  when  face  to  face  with  disaster, 
think  only  of  repairing  it,  without  a  word  of  recrim- 
ination. Indeed,  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she 
blessed  this  misfortune  which  brought  him  nearer 
to  her  and  became  a  bond  between  their  two  lives, 
which  had  long  lain  so  far  apart.  She  reflected  a 
moment.  Then,  with  an  effort  indicating  a  resolu- 
tion which  had  cost  a  bitter  struggle,  she  said : 

"  All  is  not  lost  as  yet.  I  will  go  to  Savigny  to- 
morrow and  ask  my  grandfather  for  the  money." 

He  would  never  have  dared  to  suggest  that  to 
her.  Indeed,  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  him. 
She  was  so  proud  and  old  Gardinois  so  hard  1 
Surely  that  was  a  great  sacrifice  for  her  to  make 
for  him,  and  a  striking  proof  of  her  love.  He  was 
suddenly  conscious  of  that  feeling  of  warmth,  of 
lightness  about  the  heart  that  comes  after  danger 
has  passed.  Claire  appeared  to  him  like  a  super- 
natural creature  endowed  with  the  gift  of  soothing 
and  consoling,  just  as  the  other,  up  yonder,  had 
the  gift  of  fascination  and  destruction.  He  would 
gladly  have  knelt  before  that  lovely  face,  which 
her  superb  black  hair,  negligently  twisted  for  the 
night,  framed  with  a  glossy  blue-black  halo,  and 


The  Fancifiil  Legend.  303 

in  which  the  somewhat  severe  Hnes  of  the  rcj^ular 
features  were  softened  b)'  an  adorably  tender 
expression. 

"  Claire,  Claire,  —  how  cjood  you  are  !  " 

VV^ithout  replying,  she  led  him  to  their  child's 
cradle. 

"Kiss  her,"  she  said  softly;  and  as  they  stood 
there  side  by  side,  their  heads  leaning  over  the 
child,  whose  breath,  quiet  now  but  still  a  little 
quickened  by  the  racking  cough,  Georges  was 
afraid  of  waking  her,  and  he  embraced  the  mother 
passionately. 

Certain  it  is  that  that  was  the  first  effect  of  that 
sort  that  the  appearance  of  the  little  blue  fellow 
ever  produced  in  a  household.  Ordinarily,  wher- 
ever that  horrible  little  imp  goes,  he  severs  hands 
and  hearts,  and  turns  the  mind  aside  from  its  most 
cherished  affections  by  agitating  it  with  the  innu- 
merable anxieties  aroused  by  the  rattling  of  his 
chain  and  his  ill-omened  cry  from  the  house-tops : 

"  The  note  !  the  note  !  " 


304  Fromont  and  Risler, 


II. 

REVELATIONS. 

"Ah!  here's  Sigismond.  How  goes  it,  Pere 
Sigismond?  How's  business?  Is  it  good  with 
you?  " 

The  old  cashier  smiled  affably,  shook  hands  with 
the  master,  his  wife,  and  his  brother,  and,  as  they 
talked,  looked  curiously  about.  It  was  a  manufac- 
tory of  wall-papers  on  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine, 
the  establishment  of  the  little  Prochassons,  who 
were  beginning  to  be  formidable  rivals.  Those 
former  employes  of  the  house  of  Fromont  had  set 
up  on  their  own  account,  beginning  in  a  very  small 
way,  and  had  gradually  succeeded  in  making  for 
themselves  a  place  on  'Change.  Fromont  the  uncle 
had  assisted  them  for  a  long  while  with  his  credit 
and  his  money;  the  result  being  most  friendly  re- 
lations between  the  two  firms,  and  a  balance  — 
some  ten  or  fifteen  thousand  francs  —  which  had 
never  been  definitely  adjusted,  because  they  knew 
that  money  was  in  good  hands  when  the  Prochas- 
sons had  it. 

Indeed,  the  appearance  of  the  factory  was  most 
reassuring.  The  chimneys  proudly  shook  their 
plumes  of  smoke.     The  dull  roar  of  constant  toil 


Revelations.  305 

indicated  that  the  worksliops  were  full  of  work  nun 
and  activity.  The  buildings  were  in  good  repair, 
the  windows  clean ;  everything  had  an  aspect  of 
enthusiasm,  of  good  humor,  of  discipline ;  and  be- 
hind the  grating  in  the  counting-room  sat  the  wife 
of  one  of  the  brothers,  simply  dressed,  with  her 
hair  neatly  brushed,  and  an  air  of  authority  on  her 
youthful  face,  deeply  intent  upon  a  long  column  of 
figures. 

Old  Sigismond  thought  bitterly  of  the  difference 
between  the  house  of  Fromont,  once  so  wealthy, 
now  living  entirely  upon  its  former  reputation,  and 
the  ever-increasing  prosperity  of  the  establishment 
before  his  eyes.  His  stealthy  glance  penetrated  to 
the  darkest  corners,  seeking  some  defect,  some- 
thing to  criticise;  and  his  failure  to  find  anj'thing 
made  his  heart  heavy  and  his  smile  forced  and 
anxious. 

What  embarrassed  him  most  of  all  was  the  ques- 
tion how  he  should  approach  the  subject  of  the 
money  due  his  emplo\'crs  without  bctra}-ing  the 
emptiness  of  the  strong-box.  The  poor  man  as- 
sumed a  jaunty,  unconcerned  air  wliich  was  truly 
pitiful  to  see.  —  Business  was  good — very  good. 
lie  happened  to  be  passing  through  the  quarter 
and  thought  he  would  come  in  a  moment  —  that 
was  natural,  was  it  not?  One  likes  to  sec  old 
friends. 

But  these  preambles,  these  constantly  expanding 
circumlocutions,  did  not  bring  him  to  the  point  he 
wished  to  reach  ;  on  the  contrar}%  they  led  him 
awa)'  from  his  goal,  and  imagining  that  he  detected 


3o6  From  out  and  Risler, 

amazement  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  listened  to 
him,  he  went  completely  astray,  stammered,  lost 
his  head,  and,  as  a  last  resort,  took  his  hat  and  pre- 
tended to  go.  At  the  door  he  suddenly  bethought 
himself: 

"  Ah  !  by  the  way,  as  long  as  I  am  here  — " 

He  gave  a  litUe  wink  which  he  thought  sly,  but 
which  was  in  reality  heartrending. 

"  As  long  as  I  am  here,  suppose  we  settle  that 
old  account." 

The  two  brothers  and  the  young  woman  in  the 
counting-room  gazed  at  one  another  a  second, 
unable  to  understand. 

"Account?     What  account,  pray?" 

Then  all  three  began  to  laugh  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  heartily  too,  as  if  at  a  jest,  a  rather 
broad  jest,  on  the  part  of  the  old  cashier.  —  "Go 
along  with  you,  you  sly  old  Pere  Planus  !  " — The 
old  man  laughed  with  them  !  He  laughed  without 
any  desire  to  laugh,  simply  to  do  as  the  others 
did. 

At  last  they  explained.  Fromont  Jeune  had 
come  in  person,  six  months  before,  to  collect  the 
balance  in  their  hands. 

Sigismond  felt  that  his  strength  was  going.  He 
summoned  courage  however  to  reply: 

"Ah!  yes;  true.  I  had  forgotten.  —  Sigismond 
Planus  is  growing  old,  that's  plain.  I  am  failing, 
my  children,  I  am  failing." 

And  the  goodman  went  away  wiping  his  eyes, 
in  which  still  glistened  great  tears  caused  by  the 
hearty  laugh  he  had  just  enjoyed.     The  young  pec- 


Rev e  la  tions.  ^oj 

pic  behind  him  exchanged  glances  and  shook  their 
heads.     They  understood. 

The  blow  he  had  received  was  so  crushing  that 
the  cashier,  as  soon  as  he  was  out-of-doors,  was 
obliged  to  sit  down  on  a  bench.  So  that  was  why 
Georges  did  not  come  to  the  counting-room  for 
money.  He  made  his  collections  in  person.  What 
had  taken  place  at  the  Prochassons  had  probably 
been  repeated  everywhere  else.  It  was  quite  use- 
less, therefore,  for  him  to  subject  himself  to  further 
humiliation.  Yes,  but  the  notes,  the  notes !  — 
That  thought  renewed  his  strength.  He  wiped  the 
beads  of  perspiration  from  his  forehead  and  set  out 
once  more  to  try  his  fortune  with  a  customer  in  the 
faubourg.  But  this  time  he  took  his  precautions 
and  called  to  the  cashier  from  the  doorway,  without 
entering : 

"Good-morning,  Pere  So-and-So.  —  I  want  to 
ask  you  a  question." 

He  held  the  door  half  open,  his  hand  clenched 
upon  the  knob. 

"When  did  we  settle  our  last  bill?  I  forgot  to 
enter  it." 

Oh  !  it  was  a  long  while  ago,  a  very  long  while, 
that  their  last  bill  was  settled.  I'romont  Jeune's 
receipt  was  dated  in  September.  It  was  five  months 
ago. 

The  door  was  hastily  closed.  Another !  Evi- 
dently it  would  be  the  same  thing  everywhere. 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  Chorche,  Monsieur  Chorche," 
muttered  poor  Sigismond ;  and  while  he  pursued 
his  pilgrimage,  with  bent  head  and  trembling  legs, 


3oS  Fro7nont  and  Risler. 

Madame  Fromont  Jeune's  carriage  passed  him 
close,  on  its  way  to  the  Orleans  station ;  but  Claire 
did  not  see  old  Planus,  any  more  than  she  had 
seen,  when  she  left  her  house  a  few  moments  earlier, 
Monsieur  Chebe  in  his  long  frock-coat  and  the 
illustrious  Delobelle  in  his  stovepipe  hat,  turning 
into  Rue  des  Vieilles-Haudriettes  at  opposite  ends, 
each  with  the  factory  and  Risler's  wallet  for  his  ob- 
jective point.  The  young  woman  was  much  too 
deeply  engrossed  by  what  she  had  before  her  to 
look  into  the  street. 

Think  of  it !  It  was  horrible.  To  go  and  ask 
M.  Gardinois  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs, — ■ 
M.  Gardinois,  a  man  who  boasted  that  he  had  never 
borrowed  or  loaned  a  sou  in  his  life,  who  never  lost 
an  opportunity  to  tell  how,  on  one  occasion,  being 
driven  to  ask  his  father  for  forty  francs  to  buy  a 
pair  of  trousers,  he  had  repaid  the  loan  in  small 
amounts.  In  his  dealings  with  everybody,  even 
with  his  children,  M.  Gardinois  followed  those  tra- 
ditions of  avarice  which  the  earth,  the  cruel  earth, 
often  ungrateful  to  those  who  till  it,  seems  to  in- 
culcate in  all  peasants.  The  goodman  did  not  pro- 
pose that  any  part  of  his  colossal  fortune  should  go 
to  his  children  during  his  lifetime. 

"They'll  find  my  property  when  I  am  dead," 
he  often  said. 

Acting  upon  that  principle,  he  had  married  his 
daughter,  the  elder  Madame  Fromont,  without  one 
sou  of  dowry,  and  he  never  forgave  his  son-in-law 
for  having  made  a  fortune  without  assistance  from 
him.     For  it  was  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  that 


Revelations.  309 

nature,  made  up  of  vanity  and  selfishness  in  equal 
parts,  to  wish  that  everyone  should  need  his  help, 
should  bow  before  his  wealth.  When  the  Fromonts 
expressed  in  his  presence  their  satisfaction  at  the 
prosperous  turn  their  business  was  beginning  to 
take,  his  sharp,  cunning  little  blue  eye  would  smile 
ironically,  and  he  would  growl :  "  We  shall  see 
what  it  all  comes  to  at  the  end,"  in  a  tone  that 
made  them  shudder.  Sometimes  too,  at  Savigny, 
in  the  evening,  when  the  park,  the  avenues,  the 
blue  slates  of  the  chateau,  the  red  brick  of  the 
stables,  the  ponds  and  watercourses  shone  resplen- 
dent, bathed  in  the  golden  glory  of  a  lovely  sunset, 
this  eccentric  parvenu  would  say  aloud  before  his 
children,  after  casting  his  eyes  about: 

"  The  one  thing  that  consoles  me  for  dying  some 
day  is  that  no  one  in  the  family  will  ever  be  rich 
enough  to  keep  a  chateau  that  costs  fifty  thousand 
francs  a  year  to  keep  up." 

And  yet,  with  that  latter-day  tenderness  which 
even  the  sternest  grandfathers  find  in  the  depths  of 
their  hearts,  old  Gardinois  would  gladly  have  made 
a  pet  of  his  granddaughter.  But  Claire,  even  as  a 
child,  had  felt  an  invincible  repugnance  for  the 
former  peasant's  hardness  of  heart  and  vainglori- 
ous selfishness.  And  when  affection  forms  no 
bonds  between  those  who  are  separated  b}-  differ- 
ence in  education,  such  repugnance  is  increased  by 
innumerable  trifles.  When  Claire  married  Georges, 
the  goodman  said  to  Madame  Fromont: 

"  If  your  daughter  wishes,  I  will  give  her  a  royal 
present;   but  she  must  ask  for  it." 


3IO  Fromojit  and  Risler. 

And  Claire  got  nothing,  as  she  would  not  ask  for 
anything. 

What  a  bitter  humiliation  to  come,  three  years 
later,  to  beg  a  hundred  thousand  francs  from  the 
generosity  she  had  formerly  spurned,  to  humble 
herself,  to  face  the  endless  sermons,  the  sneering 
raillery,  the  whole  seasoned  with  Berrichon  jests; 
with  phrases  smacking  of  the  soil,  with  the  taunts, 
often  well-deserved,  which  narrow  but  logical  minds 
can  utter  on  occasion,  and  which  sting  with  their 
vulgar  patois  like  an  insult  from  an  inferior. 

Poor  Claire !  Her  husband,  her  father  were 
about  to  be  humiliated  in  her  person.  She  must 
necessarily  confess  the  failure  of  the  one,  the  down- 
fall of  the  house  which  the  other  had  founded  and 
of  which  he  had  while  he  lived  been  so  proud. 
The  thought  that  she  would  be  called  upon  to  de- 
fend all  that  she  loved  best  in  the  world  made  her 
strong  and  weak  at  the  same  time. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  she  reached  Savigny. 
As  she  had  given  no  warning  of  her  visit,  the  car- 
riage from  the  chateau  was  not  at  the  station,  and 
she  had  no  choice  but  to  walk. 

It  was  a  cold  morning  and  the  roads  were  dry 
and  hard.  The  north  wind  blew  freely  across  the 
arid  fields  and  the  river,  and  swept  unopposed 
through  the  leafless  trees  and  bushes.  The  chateau 
appeared  under  the  low-lying  clouds,  with  its  long 
line  of  low  walls  and  hedges  separating  it  from  the 
surrounding  fields.  The  slates  on  the  roof  were  as 
gloomy  as  the  sky  they  reflected ;  and  that  magni- 
ficent summer  residence,  completely  transformed  by 


Revelations.  311 

the  bitter,  silent  winter,  without  a  leaf  on  its  trees 
or  a  pigeon  on  its  roofs,  seemed  to  have  naught  of 
life  save  its  rippling  watercourses  and  the  murmur- 
ing of  the  tall  poplars  as  they  bowed  majestically  to 
one  another,  shaking  the  magpies'  nests  hidden 
among  their  topmost  branches. 

At  a  distance  Claire  fancied  that  the  home  of 
her  youth  wore  a  surly,  depressed  air.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  Savigny  watched  her  approach  with  the 
cold,  aristocratic  expression  which  it  assumed  for 
passengers  on  the  high  road,  who  stopped  at  the 
iron  spikes  of  its  gateways. 

Oh  !  the  cruel  aspect  of  everything  ! 

And  yet  not  so  cruel  after  all.  For,  with  its 
tightly-closed  exterior,  Savigny  seemed  to  say  to 
her:  "Begone  —  do  not  come  in!"  And  if  she 
had  chosen  to  listen,  Claire,  renouncing  her  plan  of 
speaking  to  her  grandfather,  would  have  returned 
at  once  to  Paris  to  maintain  the  rc[)osc  of  her  life. 
But  she  did  not  understand,  poor  child,  and  already 
the  great  Newfoundland,  who  had  recognized  her, 
came  leaping  through  the  dead  leaves  and  sniffed 
at  the  gate. 

"  Good-morning,  Frangoise.  Where  is  grand- 
papa?" the  young  woman  asked  the  gardener's 
wife,  who  came  to  open  the  gate,  fawning  and  false 
and  trembling,  like  all  the  servants  at  the  chateau 
when  they  felt  that  the  master's  eye  was  upon 
them. 

Grandpapa  was  in  his  office,  a  little  ell  independ- 
ent of  the  main  house,  where  he  j^assed  his  days 
fumbling  among  boxes  and  pigeonholes  and  great 


312  Fromont  and  Risler. 

books  with  green  backs,  with  the  rage  for  bureau- 
cracy due  to  his  early  ignorance  and  the  strong 
impression  made  upon  him  long  before  by  the 
office  of  the  notary  in  his  village. 

At  that  moment  he  was  closeted  there  with  his 
keeper,  a  sort  of  country  spy,  a  paid  informer  who 
kept  him  posted  as  to  all  that  was  said  and  done  in 
the  neighborhood. 

He  was  the  master's  favorite.  His  name  was 
Fouinat,^  and  he  had  the  flat,  crafty,  bloodthirsty 
face  appropriate  to  his  name. 

When  his  granddaughter  entered,  pale  and 
trembling  under  her  furs,  the  old  man  understood 
that  something  serious  and  unusual  had  happened, 
and  he  made  a  sign  to  Fouinat,  who  disappeared, 
gliding  through  the  half-open  door  as  if  he  were 
entering  the  very  wall. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  little  one?  Why,  you  're  all 
perliitee,"  said  the  grandfather,  seated  behind  his 
huge  desk. 

Perlute,  in  the  Berrichon  dictionary,  signifies 
troubled,  excited,  upset,  and  applied  perfectly  to 
Claire's  condition.  Her  rapid  walk  in  the  cold 
country  air,  the  effort  she  had  made  in  order  to  do 
what  she  was  doing,  imparted  an  unwonted  expres- 
sion to  her  face,  which  was  much  less  reserved  than 
usual.  Without  the  slightest  encouragement  on 
his  part,  she  kissed  him  and  seated  herself  in  front 
of  the  fire,  where  old  stumps,  surrounded  by  dry 
moss  and  pine  needles  picked  up  in  the  paths,  were 
smouldering  with  occasional  outbursts  of  life  and 
1  hfouine  is  a  pole-cat. 


Revelations.  313 

the  hissing  of  sap.  She  did  not  even  take  time  to 
shake  off  the  hoar-frost  that  stood  in  beads  on  her 
veil,  but  began  to  speak  at  once,  faithful  to  her 
resolution  to  state  the  object  of  her  visit  imme- 
diately upon  entering  the  room,  before  she  allowed 
herself  to  be  intimidated  by  the  atmosphere  of  fear 
and  respect  which  encompassed  the  grandfather 
and  made  of  him  a  sort  of  awe-inspiring  deity. 

She  required  all  her  courage  not  to  become  con- 
fused, not  to  interrupt  her  narrative  before  that 
piercing  gaze  which  transfixed  her,  enlivened  from 
her  first  words  by  a  malicious  joy,  before  that 
savage  mouth  whose  corners  seemed  tightly  closed 
by  premeditated  reticence,  obstinacy,  a  denial  of 
any  sort  of  sensibility.  She  went  on  to  the  end  at 
one  bound,  respectful  without  humility,  concealing 
her  emotion,  steadying  her  voice  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  truth  of  her  story.  Really,  seeing  them 
thus  face  to  face,  he  cold  and  calm,  stretched  out 
in  his  arm-chair,  with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of 
his  gray  swansdown  waistcoat,  she  carefully  choos- 
ing her  words,  as  if  each  of  them  might  condemn 
or  absolve  her,  you  would  never  have  said  that  it 
was  a  child  before  her  grandfather,  but  an  accused 
person  before  the  examining  magistrate. 

His  thoughts  were  entirely  engrossed  by  the  joy, 
the  pride  of  his  triumph.  So  they  were  conquered 
at  last,  those  proud  upstarts  of  Fromonts  !  So  they 
needed  old  Gardinois  at  last,  did  they?  Vanity, 
his  dominating  passion,  overflowed  in  his  whole 
manner,  do  what  he  would.  When  she  had  fin- 
ished, he  took  the  floor  in  his  turn,  began  naturally 


314  Fromont  and  Risler, 

enough  with  "  I  was  sure  of  it  —  I  ahvays  said 
so  —  I  knew  we  should  see  what  it  would  all  come 
to"  —  and  continued  in  the  same  vulgar,  insulting 
tone,  ending  with  the  declaration  that,  "  in  view 
of  his  principles,  which  were  well  known  in  the 
family,"   he  would  not  lend  a  sou. 

Then  Claire  spoke  of  her  child,  of  her  husband's 
name,  which  was  also  her  father's,  and  which  would 
be  dishonored  by  the  failure.  The  old  man  was 
as  cold,  as  implacable  as  ever,  and  took  advantage 
of  her  humiliation  to  humiliate  her  still  more ;  for 
he  belonged  to  the  race  of  worthy  rustics  who, 
when  their  enemy  is  down,  never  leave  him  with- 
out leaving  on  his  face  the  marks  of  the  nails  in 
their  shoes. 

"  All  I  can  say  to  you,  little  one,  is  that  Savigny 
is  open  to  you.  Let  your  husband  come  here.  I 
happen  to  need  a  secretary.  Very  well,  Georges 
can  do  my  writing  for  twelve  hundred  francs  a 
year  and  board  for  the  whole  family.  Offer  him 
that  from  me,  and  come." 

She  rose  indignantly.  She  had  come  as  his 
child  and  he  received  her  as  a  beggar.  They 
had  not  reached  that  point  yet,  thank  God ! 

"  Do  you  think  so?  "  queried  M.  Gardinois  with 
a  savage  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

Claire  shuddered  and  walked  toward  the  door 
without  replying.  The  old  man  detained  her  with 
a  gesture. 

"  Look  out ;  you  don't  know  what  you  're  refus- 
ing. It 's  in  your  interest,  you  understand,  that  I 
suggest  bringing  your  husband  here.     You  don't 


Revelations.  3 1 5 

know  the  life  he's  leading  up  yonder.  Of  course 
you  don't  know  it,  or  you  'd  never  come  and  ask 
me  for  money  to  go  where  yours  has  gone.  Ah  ! 
I  know  all  about  your  man's  affairs.  I  have  my 
police  at  Paris,  yes,  and  at  Asnicres,  as  well  as  at 
Savigny.  I  know  what  the  fellow  does  with  his 
days  and  his  nights ;  and  I  don't  choose  that 
my  crowns  shall  go  to  the  places  where  he  goes. 
They  're  not  clean  enough  for  money  honestly 
earned." 

Claire's  eyes  opened  wide  in  amazement  and 
horror,  for  she  felt  that  a  terrible  drama  entered 
her  life  at  that  moment  through  the  little  low  door 
of  denunciation.  The  old  man  continued  with 
a  sneer: 

"  That  little  Sidonie  has  fine  sharp  teeth." 

"  Sidonie !  " 

"  Faith,  yes,  to  be  sure.  I  have  told  you  the 
name.  At  all  events  you  'd  have  found  it  out  some 
day  or  other.  In  fact,  it 's  an  astonishing  thing  that, 
since  the  time —  But  you  women  are  so  vain! 
The  idea  that  a  man  can  deceive  you  is  the  last 
idea  to  come  into  your  head.  Well,  yes,  Sidonie's 
the  one  who  has  got  it  all  out  of  him,  —  with  her 
husband's  consent,  by  the  way." 

He  went  on  pitilessly  to  tell  the  young  wife  the 
source  of  the  money  for  the  house  at  Asnieres, 
the  horses,  the  carriages,  and  how  the  pretty  little 
nest  on  Avenue  Gabriel  was  furnished.  He  ex- 
plained everything  in  detail.  It  was  clear  that, 
having  found  a  new  opportunity  to  exercise  his 
mania  for  espionage,   he   had  availed    himself  of 


3i6  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

it  to  the  utmost;  perhaps,  too,  there  was  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all,  a  vague,  carefully  concealed  rage 
against  his  little  Chebe,  the  anger  of  a  senile 
passion  never  avowed. 

Claire  listened  to  him  without  speaking,  with  a 
smile  of  utter  incredulity.  That  smile  irritated  the 
old  man,  spurred  on  his  malice.  "Ah!  you  don't 
believe  me.  Ah !  you  want  proofs,  do  you  ? " 
And  he  gave  her  proofs,  heaped  them  upon  her, 
overpowered  her  with  knife-thrusts  in  the  heart. 
She  had  only  to  go  to  Darches,  the  jeweller  on 
Rue  de  la  Paix.  A  fortnight  before,  Georges  had 
bought  a  diamond  necklace  there  for  thirty  thou- 
sand francs.  It  was  his  New  Year's  gift  to 
Sidonie.  Thirty  thousand  francs  for  diamonds  at 
the  moment  of  becoming  bankrupt ! 

He  might  have  talked  the  entire  day  and  Claire 
would  not  have  interrupted  him.  She  felt  that  the 
slightest  effort  would  cause  the  tears  that  filled  her 
eyes  to  overflow,  and  she  was  determined  to  smile, 
to  smile  to  the  end,  the  dear  brave-hearted  crea- 
ture. From  time  to  time  she  cast  a  sidelong  glance 
at  the  road.  She  was  in  haste  to  go,  to  fly  from 
the  sound  of  that  spiteful  voice,  which  pursued  her 
pitilessly. 

At  last  he  stopped;  he  had  told  the  whole 
story.     She  bowed  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"Are  you  going?  What  a  hurry  you're  in!" 
said  the  grandfather,  following  her  outside. 

At  heart  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of  his  savagery. 

"Won't  you  breakfast  with  me?  " 

She  shook  her  head,  not  having  strength  to  speak. 


Revelations.  3 1 7 

"  At  least  wait  till  the  carriage  is  ready  —  some- 
one will  drive  you  to  the  station." 

No,  still  no. 

And  she  walked  on  with  the  old  man  at  her 
heels. 

Proudly,  and  with  head  erect,  she  crossed  the 
courtyard,  filled  with  souvenirs  of  her  childhood, 
without  once  looking  behind.  And  yet  what 
echoes  of  hearty  laughter,  what  sunbeams  of  her 
younger  days  were  imprinted  in  the  tiniest  grain  of 
gravel  in  that  courtyard  ! 

Her  favorite  tree,  her  favorite  bench,  were  still 
in  the  same  place.  She  had  not  a  glance  for  them, 
nor  for  the  pheasants  in  the  aviary,  nor  even  for 
the  great  dog  Kiss,  who  followed  her  docilely, 
awaiting  the  caress  which  she  did  not  give  him. 
She  had  come  as  a  child  of  the  house,  she  went 
away  as  a  stranger,  her  mind  filled  with  horrible 
thoughts  which  the  slightest  reminder  of  her 
placid  and  happy  past  could  not  have  failed  to 
aggravate. 

"  Adieu,  grandfather." 

"  Adieu,  then." 

And  the  gate  closed  upon  her  brutally.  As 
soon  as  she  was  alone,  she  began  to  walk  swiftly, 
swiftly,  almost  to  run.  She  was  not  going  away, 
she  was  escaping.  Suddenly,  when  she  reached 
the  end  of  the  wall  of  the  estate,  she  found  herself 
in  front  of  the  little  green  gate,  surrounded  by 
nasturtiums  and  honeysuckle,  where  the  chateau 
mail-box  was.  She  stopped  instinctively,  struck 
by  one  of  those  sudden  awakenings  of  the  memory 


3i8  Fromont  and  Risler. 

which  take  place  within  us  at  critical  moments  and 
place  before  our  eyes  with  wonderful  clearness  of 
outline  the  most  trivial  acts  of  our  lives  bearing 
any  relation  to  present  disasters  or  joys.  Was  it 
the  red  sun  that  suddenly  broke  forth  from  the 
clouds,  flooding  the  level  expanse  with  its  oblique 
rays  in  that  winter  afternoon  as  at  the  sunset  hour 
iu  August?  Was  it  the  silence  that  surrounded 
her,  broken  only  by  the  harmonious  sounds  of 
nature,  which  are  almost  alike  at  all  seasons? 

Whatever  the  cause,  she  saw  herself  once  more 
as  she  was,  at  that  same  spot,  three  years  before, 
on  a  certain  day  when  she  placed  in  the  post  a 
letter  inviting  Sidonie  to  come  and  pass  a  month 
with  her  in  the  country.  Something  told  her  that 
all  her  misfortunes  dated  from  that  moment.  "  Ah  ! 
if  I  had  known  —  if  I  had  known!"  And  she 
fancied  that  she  could  still  feel  between  her  fingers 
the  satiny  envelope,  ready  to  drop  into  the  box. 

Thereupon,  as  she  reflected  what  an  innocent, 
hopeful,  happy  child  she  was  at  that  moment,  she 
cried  out  indignantly,  gentle  creature  that  she  was, 
against  the  injustice  of  life.  She  asked  herself: 
"  Why  is  it?  What  have  I  done?  " 

Then  she  suddenly  exclaimed  :  "  No  !  it  is  n't 
true.  It  is  n't  possible.  He  lied  to  me."  And  as 
she  went  on  toward  the  station,  the  unhappy  girl 
tried  to  convince  herself,  to  make  herself  believe 
what  she  said.     But  she  did  not  succeed. 

The  truth  dimly  seen  is  like  the  veiled  sun, 
which  tires  the  eyes  far  more  than  its  most  brilliant 
rays.     In  the  semi-obscurity  which  still  enveloped 


Revelations,  3 1 9 

her  misfortune,  the  poor  woman's  sight  was  keener 
than  she  could  have  wished.  Now  she  understood 
and  accounted  for  certain  pecuHar  circumstances 
in  her  husband's  hfe,  his  frequent  absences,  his 
restlessness,  his  embarrassed  behavior  on  certain 
days,  and  the  abundant  details  which  he  sometimes 
volunteered,  upon  returning  home,  concerning  his 
movements,  mentioning  names  as  proofs  which  she 
did  not  ask.  PVom  all  these  conjectures  the  evi- 
dence of  his  wrong-doing  was  made  up.  And  still 
she  refused  to  believe  it  and  looked  forward  to  her 
arrival  in  Paris  to  set  her  doubts  at  rest. 

There  was  no  one  at  the  station,  a  lonely,  cheer- 
less little  station,  where  no  traveller  ever  shows  his 
face  in  winter.  As  Claire  sat  there  awaiting  the 
train,  gazing  vaguely  at  the  station-master's  melan- 
choly little  garden,  and  the  debris  of  climbing 
plants  running  along  the  fences  by  the  track,  she 
felt  a  moist,  warm  breath  on  her  glove.  It  was 
her  friend  Kiss,  who  had  followed  her  and  was  re- 
minding her  of  their  happy  romps  together  in  the 
old  days  with  little  shakes  of  the  head,  short  leaps, 
capers  of  joy  tempered  by  humility,  concluding  by 
stretching  his  beautiful  white  coat  at  full  length  at 
his  mistress's  feet,  on  the  cold  floor  of  the  waiting- 
room.  Those  humble  caresses  which  sought  her 
out,  like  a  hesitating  offer  of  devotion  and  s}'mpa- 
thy,  caused  the  sobs  she  had  so  long  restrained  to 
break  forth  at  last.  But  suddenly  she  felt  ashamed 
of  her  weakness.  She  rose  and  sent  the  dog  away, 
sent  him  away  pitilessly  with  voice  and  gesture, 
pointing  to  the  house  in  the  distance,  with  a  stern 


320  Fromont  and  Risler. 

face  which  poor  Kiss  had  never  seen.  Then  she 
hurriedly  wiped  her  eyes  and  her  moist  hands ;  for 
the  train  for  Paris  was  approaching  and  she  knew 
that  in  a  moment  she  should  need  all  her  courage. 

Claire's  first  thought  on  leaving  the  train  was  to 
take  a  cab  and  drive  to  the  jeweller  on  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  who  had,  as  her  grandfather  alleged,  supplied 
Georges  with  a  diamond  necklace.  If  that  should 
prove  to  be  true,  then  all  the  rest  was  true.  Her 
dread  of  learning  the  truth  was  so  great  that,  when 
she  reached  her  destination  and  alighted  in  front 
of  that  magnificent  establishment,  she  stopped, 
afraid  to  enter.  To  give  herself  countenance,  she 
pretended  to  be  deeply  interested  in  the  jewels 
displayed  in  velvet  cases ;  and  one  who  had  seen 
her,  quietly  but  fashionably  dressed,  leaning  for- 
ward to  look  at  that  gleaming  and  attractive  display, 
would  have  taken  her  for  a  happy  wife  engaged  in 
selecting  a  bracelet,  rather  than  an  anxious,  sorrow- 
stricken  soul  who  had  come  thither  to  discover  the 
secret  of  her  life. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  At  that 
time  of  day,  in  winter.  Rue  de  la  Paix  presents  a 
truly  dazzling  aspect.  In  that  luxurious  neighbor- 
hood life  moves  quickly  between  the  short  morning 
and  the  early  evening.  There  are  carriages  mov- 
ing swiftly  in  all  directions,  an  uninterrupted 
rumbling,  and  on  the  sidewalks  a  coquettish  haste, 
a  rustling  of  silks  and  furs.  Winter  is  the  real 
Parisian  season.  To  see  that  devil's  own  Paris  in 
all  its  beauty  and  wealth  and  happiness,  one  must 
watch  the  current  of  its  life  beneath  a  lowering 


Rev  e  la  tions.  321 

sky,  heavy  with  snow.  Nature  is  absent  from  the 
picture,  so  to  speak.  No  wind,  no  sunh'ght.  Just 
enough  hght  for  the  dullest  colors,  the  faintest 
reflections  to  produce  an  admirable  efifect,  from 
the  reddish-gray  tone  of  the  monuments  to  the 
pearls  of  jet  which  bestud  a  woman's  dress. 
Theatre  and  concert  posters  shine  resplendent,  as 
if  illumined  by  the  effulgence  of  the  footlights. 
The  shops  are  crowded.  It  seems  that  all  those 
people  must  be  preparing  for  perpetual  festivities. 
And  at  such  times,  if  any  sorrow  is  mingled  with 
that  bustle  and  tumult,  it  seems  the  more  terrible 
for  that  reason.  For  five  minutes  Claire  suffered 
martyrdom  worse  than  death.  Yonder,  on  the 
road  to  Savigny,  in  the  vast  expanse  of  the  deserted 
fields,  her  despair  spread  out  as  it  were  in  the 
sharp  air  and  seemed  to  enfold  her  less  closely. 
Here  she  was  stifling.  The  voices  beside  her,  the 
footsteps,  the  heedless  jostling  of  people  who 
passed,  all  added  to  her  torture. 

At  last  she  entered  the  shop. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  madame,  certainly,  —  Monsieur  Fre- 
mont. A  necklace  of  diamonds  and  roses.  We 
could  make  you  one  like  it  for  twenty-five  thousand 
francs." 

That  was  five  thousand  less  than  for  him. 

"Thanks,  monsieur,"  said  Claire,  "  I  will  think  it 
over." 

A  mirror  in  front  of  her,  in  which  she  saw  her 
dark-ringed  eyes  and  her  dcathi}'  pallor,  frightened 
her.  She  went  out  quickly,  walking  stiffly  in  order 
not  to  fall. 


32  2  Fromo7it  and  Risler. 

She  had  but  one  idea,  to  escape  from  the  street, 
from  the  noise ;  to  be  alone,  quite  alone,  so  that 
she  might  plunge  headlong  into  that  abyss  of 
heartrending  thoughts,  of  black  things  dancing 
madly>  in  the  depths  of  her  mind.  Oh  !  the  coward, 
the  infamous  villain  !  And  to  think  that  only  last 
night  she  was  speaking  comforting  words  to  him, 
had  her  arms  about  him ! 

Suddenly,  with  no  knowledge  of  how  it  hap- 
pened, she  found  herself  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
factory.  Through  what  streets  had  she  come? 
Had  she  come  in  a  carriage  or  on  foot?  She  had 
no  remembrance.  She  had  acted  unconsciously, 
as  in  a  dream.  The  sentiment  of  reality  returned, 
pitiless  and  poignant,  when  she  reached  the  steps 
of  her  little  house.  Risler  was  there,  superintend- 
ing several  men  who  were  carrying  potted  plants 
up  to  his  wife's  apartments  in  preparation  for  the 
magnificent  party  she  was  to  give  that  very  even- 
ing. With  his  usual  tranquillity  he  directed  the 
work,  protected  the  tall  branches  which  the  work- 
men might  have  broken :  "  Not  like  that.  Bend 
it  over.     Look  out  for  the  carpet." 

The  atmosphere  of  pleasure  and  merry-making, 
which  had  so  revolted  her  a  moment  before,  pur- 
sued her  to  her  own  house.  It  was  too  much,  on 
top  of  all  the  rest !  She  rebelled ;  and  as  Risler 
saluted  her,  affectionately  and  with  deep  respect  as 
always,  her  face  assumed  an  expression  of  intense 
disgust,  and  she  passed  without  speaking  to  him, 
without  seeing  the  amazement  that  opened  his 
great  honest  eyes. 


Revelations.  323 

From  that  moment  her  course  was  determined 
upon. 

Wrath,  a  wrath  born  of  uprightness  and  sense  of 
justice,  guided  her  actions. 

She  hardly  took  time  to  kiss  her  child's  rosy- 
cheeks  before  running  to  her  mother's  room. 

"  Come,  mamma,  dress  yourself  quickly.  We 
are  going  away.     We  are  going  away." 

The  old  lady  rose  slowly  from  the  armchair  in 
which  she  was  sitting,  busily  engaged  cleaning  her 
watch  chain  by  inserting  a  pin  between  every  two 
links  with  infinite  care. 

"  Come,  conic,  hurry.     Get  your  things  ready." 

Her  voice  trembled,  and  the  poor  monomaniac's 
room  seemed  a  horrible  place  to  her,  all  glistening 
as  it  was  with  the  cleanliness  that  had  gradually 
become  a  mania.  She  had  reached  one  of  those 
fateful  moments  when  the  loss  of  one  illusion  causes 
you  to  lose  them  all,  enables  you  to  look  to  the 
very  depths  of  human  misery.  The  realization  of 
her  utter  isolation,  between  her  half-mad  mother, 
her  faithless  husband,  her  too  young  child,  came 
upon  her  for  the  first  time;  but  it  served  only  to 
strengthen  her  in  her  resolution. 

In  a  moment  the  whole  household  was  busily 
engaged  in  making  preparations  for  this  abrupt, 
unexpected  departure.  Claire  hurried  the  bewil- 
dered servants  and  dressed  her  mother  and  the 
child,  who  laughed  merrily  amid  all  the  excite- 
ment. She  was  anxious  to  go  before  Georges's 
return,  so  that  he  might  find  the  cradle  empty  and 
the  house  deserted.     Where  should  she  go?     She 


324  Fromont  and  Risler. 

did  not  know  as  yet.  Perhaps  to  an  aunt's  at 
Orleans,  perhaps  to  Savigny,  no  matter  where. 
What  she  must  do  first  of  all  was  —  go,  fly  from 
that  atmosphere  of  treachery  and  falsehood. 

At  that  moment  she  was  in  her  bedroom,  pack- 
ing a  trunk,  making  a  pile  of  her  effects,  —  a  heart- 
rending occupation.  Every  object  that  she  touched 
set  in  motion  wdiole  worlds  of  thoughts,  of  memo- 
ries. There  is  so  much  of  ourselves  in  anything 
that  we  use.  At  times  the  odor  of  a  sachet-bag, 
the  pattern  of  a  bit  of  lace,  was  enough  to  bring 
tears  to  her  eyes.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  heavy 
footstep  in  the  salon,  the  door  of  which  was  partly 
open ;  then  there  was  a  slight  cough,  as  if  to  let 
her  know  that  there  was  some  one  there.  She 
supposed  that  it  was  Risler :  for  no  one  else  had 
the  right  to  enter  her  apartments  so  unceremoni- 
ously. The  idea  of  having  to  endure  the  presence 
of  that  hypocritical  face,  that  false  smile,  was  so 
distasteful  to  her  that  she  rushed  to  close  the 
door. 

"  I  am  not  at  home  to  anyone." 

The  door  resisted  her  efforts,  and  Sigismond's 
square  head  appeared  in  the  opening. 

"It's  me,  madame,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone. 
"  I  have  come  to  get  the  money." 

"What  money?"  demanded  Claire,  for  she  no 
longer  remembered  why  she  had  gone  to  Savigny. 

"  Sh  !  The  funds  to  meet  my  note  to-morrow. 
Monsieur  Georges,  when  he  went  out,  told  me  that 
you  would  hand  it  to  me  very  soon." 

"  Ah  !  yes  —  true.    The  hundred  thousand  francs. 


Revelations.  325 

I  haven't  them,  Monsieur  Planus;  I  haven't  any- 
thing." 

"  Then,"  said  the  cashier,  in  a  strange  voice,  as 
if  he  were  speaking  to  himself,  "  then  it  means 
failure." 

And  he  turned  slowly  away. 

Failure ! 

She  sank  on  a  chair,  appalled,  crushed. 

For  the  last  few  hours  the  downfall  of  her  hap- 
piness had  caused  her  to  forget  the  downfall  of  the 
house ;  but  she  remembered  now. 

So  her  husband  was  ruined  ! 

In  a  little  while,  when  he  returned  home,  he 
would  learn  of  the  disaster,  and  he  would  learn  at 
the  same  time  that  his  wife  and  child  had  gone ; 
that  he  was  left  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  wreck. 

All  alone,  that  weak,  easily  influenced  creature, 
who  could  only  weep  and  complain  and  shake  his 
fist  at  life,  like  a  child.  What  would  become  of 
the  miserable  man? 

She  pitied  him,  notwithstanding  his  crime. 

Then  the  thought  came  to  her  that  she  would 
perhaps  seem  to  have  fled  at  the  approach  of 
bankruptcy,  of  povert>'. 

Georges  might  say  to  himself: 

"  If  I  had  been  rich,  she  would  have  forgiven 
me !  " 

Ought  she  to  allow  him  to  entertain  that  doubt? 

To  a  generous,  noble  heart  like  Claire's,  nothing 
more  than  that  was  necessary  to  change  her  plans. 
Instantly  she  was  conscious  that  her  feeling  of  re- 
pugnance, of  revolt,  began  to  grow  less  poignant, 


326  Fromo7it  and  Rislcr. 

and  a  sudden  ray  of  light  seemed  to  make  her 
duty  clearer  to  her.  When  they  came  to  tell  her 
that  the  child  was  dressed  and  the  trunks  ready, 
her  mind  was  made  up  anew. 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  she  replied  gently.     "  We  are 
not  going  away." 


TJic  Day  of  Reckoning.  327 


III. 

THE   DAY   OF   RECKONING. 

The  great  clock  of  Saint-Gcrvais  struck  one  in  the 
morning.  It  was  so  cokl  that  the  fine  snow,  flying 
through  the  air,  hardened  as  it  fell,  covering  the 
pavements  with  a  slippery  white  blanket. 

Risler,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  was  hurrying  home 
from  the  brewery  through  the  deserted  streets  of 
the  Marais.  He  had  been  celebrating,  in  company 
with  his  two  faithful  borrowers,  Chebe  and  Delo- 
belle,  his  first  moment*  of  leisure,  the  end  of  that 
endless  period  of  seclusion  during  which  he  had 
been  superintending  the  manufacture  of  his  press, 
with  all  the  gropings,  the  joys,  and  the  disappoint- 
ments of  the  inventor.  It  had  been  long,  very 
long.  At  the  last  moment  he  had  discovered  a 
defect.  The  crane  did  not  work  well ;  and  he  had 
had  to  revise  his  plans  and  drawings.  At  last,  on 
that  very  day,  the  new  machine  had  been  tried. 
Everything  had  succeeded  to  his  heart's  desire. 
The  worthy  man  was  triumphant.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  had  paid  a  debt,  by  giving  the  house 
of  Fromont  the  benefit  of  a  new  machine,  which 
would  lessen  the  labor,  shorten  the  hours  of  the 


328  Fromont  and  Risler. 

workmen,  and  at  the  same  time  double  the  profits 
and  the  reputation  of  the  factory.  So  that  he  in- 
dulged in  beautiful  dreams,  I  promise  you,  as  he 
plodded  along.  His  footsteps  rang  out  proudly, 
emphasized  by  the  resolute  and  happy  gait  of  his 
thoughts. 

What  plans,  what  hopes  ! 

He  could  replace  the  chalet  at  Asnieres  —  which 
Sidonie  was  beginning  to  look  upon  as  a  mere 
hovel — by  a  fine  country  estate  ten  or  fifteen 
leagues  from  Paris;  he  could  give  Monsieur  Chebe 
a  little  larger  allowance,  and  accommodate  Delo- 
belle  more  frequently,  for  his  unfortunate  wife  was 
working  herself  to  death;  and  lastly  he  could  send 
for  Frantz  to  come  home.  That  was  his  most 
cherished  wish.  He  never  ceased  to  think  of  the 
poor  boy,  —  an  exile  in  an  unhealthy  country,  at 
the  mercy  of  a  tyrannical  management,  which  sent 
its  employes  home  on  leave,  to  recall  them  almost 
immediately  without  explanation ;  for  Risler  still 
had  upon  his  mind  Frantz's  abrupt,  inexplicable 
departure  on  his  last  journey,  and  his  brief  appear- 
ance in  Paris,  which  had  revived  all  his  affectionate 
memories  of  their  life  together  without  giving  him 
time  to  feel  that  his  brother  was  really  there.  So 
he  proposed,  when  the  press  was  fairly  started,  to 
find  some  little  corner  in  the  factory  where  Frantz 
could  be  made  useful  and  could  lay  the  foundations 
of  genuine  prosperity.  As  always,  Risler  thought 
only  of  the  happiness  of  others.  His  only  selfish 
satisfaction  consisted  in  seeing  everybody  about 
him  smiling. 


The  Day  of  Rcckoniiig.  329 

Quickening  his  pace,  he  reached  the  corner  of 
Rue  des  Vieillcs-Haudriettes.  A  long  hne  of  car- 
riages was  standing  in  front  of  the  factory,  and  the 
light  of  their  lanterns  in  the  street,  the  shadows 
of  the  drivers  seeking  shelter  from  the  snow  in 
corners  and  angles  that  those  old  buildings  have 
retained  despite  the  straightening  of  the  sidewalks, 
gave  an  animated  aspect  to  that  deserted,  silent 
quarter. 

"  Yes,  yes !  to  be  sure,"  thought  the  honest 
fellow,  "  we  have  a  ball  at  our  house."  He  re- 
membered that  Sidonie  was  giving  a  grand  musi- 
cal and  dancing  part}-,  which  she  had  excused  him 
from  attending,  by  the  way,  "  knowing  that  he  was 
very  busy."  In  the  midst  of  his  plans,  of  his  vi- 
sions of  wealth  dispensed  with  generous  hand,  this 
festivity,  the  echoes  of  which  reached  his  ears,  was 
all  that  was  needed  to  complete  his  satisfaction  and 
his  pride.  With  a  certain  solemnity  of  manner  he 
pushed  open  the  heavy  gate,  which  was  left  ajar 
for  the  going  and  coming  of  the  guests,  and  saw 
the  whole  second  floor  of  the  little  house  at  the 
end  of  the  garden  brilliantly  illuminated. 

Shadows  passed  and  repassed  behind  the  flutter- 
ing veil  of  the  curtains;  the  orchestra  seemed  to 
follow  the  movements  of  those  stealthy  apparitions 
with  the  rising  and  falling  of  its  muffled  notes. 
Dancing  was  in  progress.  Risler  let  his  eyes  rest 
for  a  moment  on  that  phantasmagoria  of  the  ball, 
and  fancied  that  he  recognized  Sidonie's  shadow  in 
a  small  room  adjoining  the  salon. 

She  was  standing  erect  in  her  magnificent  cos- 


33^  Fromoiit  and  Risler. 

tume,  in  the  attitude  of  a  pretty  woman  before  her 
mirror.  A  shorter  shadow  behind  her,  Madame 
Dobson  doubtless,  was  repairing  some  accident  to 
the  dress,  retying  the  knot  of  a  ribbon  tied  about 
her  neck,  its  long  ends  floating  down  to  the 
flounces  of  the  train.  It  was  all  very  indistinct, 
but  the  woman's  graceful  figure  was  recognizable 
in  those  faintly  traced  outlines,  and  Risler  tarried 
long  admiring  her. 

The  contrast  on  the  first  floor  was  most  striking. 
There  was  no  light  visible,  with  the  exception  of 
a  little  lamp  shining  through  the  lilac  hangings 
of  the  bedroom.  Risler  noticed  that  circumstance, 
and  as  the  little  girl  had  been  ailing  a  few  days 
before,  he  felt  anxious  about  her,  remembering 
Madame  Georges's  strange  agitation  when  she 
passed  him  by  so  hurriedly  in  the  afternoon ;  and 
he  retraced  his  steps  as  far  as  Pere  Achille's  lodge 
to  inquire. 

The  lodge  was  full.  Coachmen  were  warming 
themselves  around  the  stove,  chatting  and  laughing 
amid  the  smoke  from  their  pipes.  When  Risler 
appeared  there  was  profound  silence,  a  cunning, 
inquisitive,  significant  silence.  They  had  evidently 
been  speaking  of  him, 

"  Is  the  Fromonts'  child  still  sick?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  not  the  child,  monsieur." 

"  Monsieur  Georges  sick?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  taken  when  he  came  home  to- 
night. I  went  right  ofi"  to  get  the  doctor.  He  said 
that  it  would  n't  amount  to  anything,  that  all 
monsieur  needed  was   rest." 


The  Day  of  Reckonhig.  2>Z^ 

As  Risler  closed  the  door  Perc  Achillc  added, 
under  his  breath,  with  the  half-fearful,  half-auda- 
cious insolence  of  an  inferior,  who  would  like  to  be 
listened  to  and  yet  not  distinctly  heard  : 

"  Ah  !  dame,  they  're  not  cutting  such  a  shine  on 
the  first  floor  as  they  are  on  the  second." 

This  is  what  had  happened. 

Fromont  Jeune,  on  returning  home  during  the 
evening,  had  found  his  wife  with  such  a  changed, 
heart-broken  face,  that  he  at  once  divined  a  catas- 
trophe. But  he  had  become  so  accustomed  in  the 
past  two  years  to  impunity  for  his  crime,  that  it 
did  not  for  one  moment  occur  to  him  that  his  wife 
could  have  been  informed  of  his  conduct.  Claire, 
for  her  part,  to  avoid  humiliating  him,  was  gen- 
erous enough  to  speak  only  of  Savigny. 

"Grandpapa  refused,"  she  said. 

The  miserable  man  turned  frightfully  pale. 

"I  am  lost — I  am  lost,"  he  muttered  two  or 
three  times  in  the  wild  accents  of  fever;  and  his 
sleepless  nights,  a  last  terrible  scene  which  he  had 
had  with  Sidonie,  trying  to  induce  her  not  to  give 
this  party  on  the  eve  of  his  downfall,  Monsieur  Gar- 
dinois's  refusal,  all  these  maddening  things  which 
followed  so  closely  on  one  another's  heels  and  had 
agitated  him  terribly  one  after  another,  culminated 
in  a  genuine  nervous  attack.  Claire  took  pity  on 
him,  put  him  to  bed  and  established  herself  by  his 
side ;  but  her  voice  had  lost  that  affectionate  in- 
tonation which  soothes  and  persuades.  There 
was    in    her   gestures,    in    the    way   in    which  she 


332  Fromont  and  Risler. 

arranged  the  pillow  under  the  patient's  head  and 
prepared  a  quieting  draught,  a  strange  indifference, 
listlessness. 

"  But  I  have  ruined  you !  "  Georges  said  from 
time  to  time,  as  if  to  rouse  her  from  that  apathy, 
which  made  him  uncomfortable.  She  replied  with 
a  proud,  disdainful  gesture.  Ah  !  if  he  had  done 
only  that  to  her  ! 

At  last,  however,  his  nerves  became  quieter,  the 
fever  subsided  and  he  fell  asleep. 

She  remained  to  attend  to  his  wants. 

"  It  IS  my  duty,"  she  said  to  herself 

Her  duty ! 

She  had  reached  that  point  with  that  man  whom 
she  had  adored  so  blindly,  with  the  hope  of  a  long 
and  happy  life  together. 

At  that  moment  the  ball  in  Sidonie's  apartments 
began  to  become  very  animated.  The  ceiling 
trembled  rhythmically,  for  Madame  had  had  all  the 
carpets  removed  from  her  salons  for  the  greater 
comfort  of  the  dancers.  Sometimes,  too,  the  sound 
of  voices  reached  Claire's  ears  in  puffs,  and  fre- 
quent tumultuous  applause,  from  which  one  could 
divine  the  great  number  of  the  guests,  the  crowded 
condition  of  the  salons. 

Claire  was  lost  in  thought.  She  did  not  waste 
time  in  regrets,  in  fruitless  lamentations.  She 
knew  that  life  was  inflexible  and  that  all  the  argu- 
ments in  the  world  will  not  arrest  the  cruel  logic 
of  its  inevitable  progress.  She  did  not  ask  herself 
how  that  man  had  succeeded  in  deceiving  her  so 
long,  —  how  he  could  have  sacrificed  the  honor  and 


The  Day  of  Reckoning.  333 

happiness  of  his  family  for  a  mere  caprice.  That 
was  the  fact,  and  all  her  reflections  could  not  wipe 
it  out,  could  not  repair  the  irreparable.  The  sub- 
ject that  engrossed  her  thoughts  was  the  future. 
A  new  existence  was  unfolding  before  her  eyes, 
dark,  cruel,  full  of  privation  and  toil ;  and,  strangely 
enough,  the  prospect  of  ruin,  instead  of  terrifying 
her,  restored  all  her  courage.  The  idea  of  the 
change  of  abode  made  necessary  by  the  economy 
they  would  be  obliged  to  practise,  of  work  made 
compulsory  for  Georges  and  perhaps  for  herself, 
infused  an  indefinable  energy  into  the  distressing 
calmness  of  her  despair.  What  a  heavy  burden 
of  souls  she  was  going  to  have  with  her  three 
children :  her  mother,  her  child  and  her  husband  ! 
The  feeling  of  responsibility  prevented  her  giving 
way  too  much  to  her  misfortune,  to  the  shipwreck 
of  her  love  ;  and  in  proportion  as  she  forgot  herself 
in  the  thought  of  the  weak  creatures  she  had  to 
protect,  she  realized  more  fully  the  meaning  of  the 
word  "  sacrifice,"  so  vague  on  careless  lips,  so 
serious  when  it  becomes  a  rule  of  life. 

Such  were  the  poor  woman's  thoughts  during 
that  sad  vigil,  a  vigil  of  arms  and  tears,  while  she 
was  preparing  her  forces  for  the  great  battle. 
Such  was  the  scene  lighted  by  the  modest  little 
lamp  which  Risler  had  seen  from  below,  like  a  star 
fallen  from  the  radiant  chandeliers  of  the  ball-room. 

Reassured  by  Pcre  Achille's  reply,  the  honest 
fellow  thought  of  going  up  to  his  bedroom,  avoid- 
ing the  festivities  and  the  guests,  for  whom  he  cared 
but  little. 


334  Fromont  and  Risler. 

On  such  occasions  he  used  a  small  servants' 
staircase  communicating  with  the  counting-room. 
So  he  walked  through  the  many-windowed  work- 
shops, which  the  moon,  reflected  by  the  snow, 
made  as  light  as  at  noon-day.  He  breathed  the 
atmosphere  of  the  day  of  toil,  a  hot  stifling  atmos- 
phere, heavy  with  the  odor  of  boiled  talc  and 
varnish.  The  papers  spread  out  on  the  dryers 
formed  long,  rustling  paths.  On  all  sides  tools 
were  lying  about,  and  blouses  hanging  here  and 
there  ready  for  the  morrow.  Risler  never  walked 
through  the  shops  without  a  feeling  of  pleasure. 

Suddenly  he  spied  a  light  in  Planus's  office,  at 
the  end  of  that  long  line  of  deserted  rooms.  The 
old  cashier  was  still  at  work,  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning  !     It  w^as  really  most  extraordinary. 

Risler's  first  impulse  was  to  retrace  his  steps. 
In  fact,  since  his  unaccountable  falling-out  with 
Sigismond,  since  the  cashier  had  adopted  that  at- 
titude of  cold  silence  toward  him,  he  had  avoided 
meeting  him.  His  wounded  friendship  had  always 
led  him  to  shun  an  explanation ;  he  had  a  sort  of 
pride  in  not  asking  Planus  why  he  bore  him  ill-will. 
But,  on  that  evening,  Risler  felt  so  strongly  the 
need  of  cordial  sympathy,  of  pouring  out  his  heart 
to  someone,  and  then  it  was  such  an  excellent  op- 
portunity for  a  tete-a-tete  with  his  former  friend, 
that  he  did  not  try  to  avoid  him  but  boldly  entered 
the  counting-room. 

The  cashier  was  sitting  there,  motionless,  among 
heaps  of  papers  and  great  books,  which  he  had 
been  turning  over,  and  some  of  which  had  fallen  to 


The  Day  of  Reckoning.  335 

the  floor.  At  the  sound  of  his  employer's  foot- 
steps, he  did  not  even  Hft  his  eyes.  He  had  recog- 
nized Risler's  step.  The  latter,  somewhat  abashed, 
hesitated  a  moment  ;  then,  impelled  by  one  of 
those  secret  springs  which  we  have  within  us  and 
which  guide  us,  despite  ourselves,  in  the  path 
of  our  destiny,  he  walked  straight  to  the  cashier's 
grating. 

"  Sigismond,"  he  said,  in  a  grave  voice. 

The  old  man  raised  his  head  and  displayed  a 
shrunken  face  down  which  two  great  tears  were 
rolling,  the  first  perhaps  that  that  animate  column 
of  figures  had  ever  shed  in  his  life. 

"You  are  crying,  old  man?  What's  the 
trouble?  " 

And  honest  Risler,  deeply  touched,  held  out  his 
hand  to  his  friend,  who  hastily  withdrew  his.  That 
movement  of  repulsion  was  so  instinctive,  so  brutal, 
that  all  Risler's  emotion  changed  to  indignation. 

He  drew  himself  up  with  stern  dignity. 

"  I  offer  you  my  hand,  Sigismond  Planus  !  "  he 
said. 

"And  I  refuse  to  take  it,"  said  Planus,  rising. 

There  was  a  terrible  pause,  during  which  they 
heard  the  muffled  music  of  the  orchestra  upstairs 
and  the  noise  of  the  ball,  the  dull,  wearing  noise 
of  floors  shaken  b)'  the  rh}-thmic  movement  of  the 
dance. 

"Why  do  you  refuse  to  take  my  hand?"  de- 
manded Risler  simply,  while  the  grating  upon 
which  he  leaned  trembled  with  a  metallic  shudder. 

Sigismond  was  facing  him,  with  both  hands  on 


33^  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

his  desk,  as  if  to  emphasize  and  drive  home  what 
he  was  about  to  say  in  reply. 

"Why?  Because  you  have  ruined  the  house, 
because  in  a  few  hours  a  messenger  from  the  Bank 
will  come  and  stand  where  you  are,  to  collect  a 
hundred  thousand  francs,  and  because,  thanks  to  you, 
I  haven't  a  sou  in  the  cash-box — that's  why!" 

Risler  was  stupefied. 

"  I  have  ruined  the  house  —  I  ?  " 

"Worse  than  that,  monsieur.  You  have  allowed 
it  to  be  ruined  by  your  wife,  and  you  have  arranged 
with  her  to  get  the  benefit  of  our  ruin  and  your  dis- 
honor. Oh !  I  can  see  your  game  well  enough. 
The  money  your  wife  has  wormed  out  of  the 
wretched  Fromont,  the  house  at  Asnieres,  the 
diamonds  and  all  the  rest  is  invested  in  her  name, 
of  course,  out  of  reach  of  disaster;  and  of  course 
you  can  retire  from  business  now." 

"Oh!  — oh!"  exclaimed  Risler  in  a  faint 
voice,  a  restrained  voice  rather,  that  was  insufficient 
for  the  multitude  of  thoughts  it  strove  to  express; 
and  as  he  stammered  helplessly  he  drew  the  grat- 
ing toward  him  with  such  force  that  he  broke  off  a 
piece  of  it.  Then  he  staggered,  fell  to  the  floor 
and  lay  there  motionless,  speechless,  retaining  only, 
in  what  little  life  was  still  left  in  him,  the  firm  de- 
termination not  to  die  until  he  had  justified  himself. 
That  determination  must  have  been  very  powerful ; 
for  while  his  temples  throbbed  madly,  hammered 
by  the  blood  that  turned  his  face  purple,  while  his 
ears  were  ringing  and  his  glazed  eyes  seemed 
already  turned  toward  the    terrible   unknown,  the 


The  Day  of  Reckoning.  'Xi'hl 

unhappy  man  muttered  to  himself  in  a  thick  voice, 
the  voice  of  a  shipwrecked  man  speakin^^  with  his 
mouth  full  of  water  in  a  howling  gale:  "  I  must 
Hve  —  I  must  live." 

When  he  recovered  consciousness,  he  was  sitting 
on  the  cushioned  bench  on  which  the  workmen  sat 
huddled  together  on  pay-day,  his  cloak  on  the 
floor,  his  cravat  untied,  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck, 
cut  open  by  Sigismond's  knife.  Luckily  for  him 
he  had  cut  his  hands  when  he  tore  the  grating 
apart ;  the  blood  had  flowed  freely  and  that  acci- 
dent was  enough  to  avert  an  attack  of  apoplexy. 
On  opening  his  eyes  he  saw  on  either  side  old 
Sigismond  and  Madame  Georges,  whom  the  cashier 
had  summoned  in  his  distress.  As  soon  as  Risler 
could  speak,  he  said  to  her  in  a  choking  voice : 

"Is  this  true,  Madame  Chorchc,  —  is  this  true 
that  he  just  told  me?" 

She  had  not  the  courage  to  deceive  him,  so  she 
turned  her  eyes  away. 

"So,"  continued  the  poor  fellow,  "  so  the  house 
is  ruined,  and  I  —  " 

"  No,  Risler,  my  friend.     No,  not  you." 

"My  wife,  was  it  not?  Oh!  it  is  horrible! 
This  is  how  I  have  paid  my  debt  of  gratitude  to 
you.  But  you,  Madame  Chorche,  you  could  not 
have  believed  that  I  was  a  party  to  this  infann?  " 

"No,  my  friend,  no,  be  calm.  I  know  that  }'Ou 
are  the  most  honorable  man  on  earth." 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  with  trembling  lips 
and  clasped  hands,  for  there  was  something  infan- 
tile in  all  the  manifestations  of  that  artless  nature. 


33*^  Fromo7tt  and  Risler. 

"  Oh  !  Madame  Chorche,  Madame  Chorche,"  he 
murmured.  "  When  I  think  that  I  am  the  one  who 
has  ruined  you." 

In  the  terrible  blow  which  overwhelmed  him,  and 
by  which  his  heart,  overflowing  with  love  for  Si- 
donie,  was  most  deeply  wounded,  he  refused  to  see 
anything  but  the  financial  disaster  to  the  house  of 
Fromont,  caused  by  his  blind  devotion  to  his  wife. 
Suddenly  he  stood  erect. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "let  us  not  give  way  to  emo- 
tion.    We  must  see  about  settling  our  accounts." 

Madame  Fromont  was  afraid. 

"  Risler,  Risler —  where  are  you  going?  " 

She  thought  that  he  was  going  up  to  Georges' s 
room. 

Risler  understood  her  and  smiled  in  superb 
disdain. 

"  Never  fear,  madame.  Monsieur  Georges  can 
sleep  in  peace.  I  have  something  more  urgent  to 
do  than  avenge  my  honor  as  a  husband.  W^ait  for 
me  here.     I  will  come  back." 

He  darted  toward  the  narrow  staircase ;  and 
Claire,  relying  upon  his  word,  remained  with 
Planus  during  one  of  those  supreme  moments  of 
uncertainty  which  seem  interminable  because  of  all 
the  conjectures  with  which  they  are  thronged. 

A  few  moments  later  the  sound  of  hurried  steps, 
the  rustling  of  silk  filled  the  dark  and  narrow 
staircase. 

Sidonie  appeared  first,  in  ball  costume,  gor- 
geously arrayed  and  so  pale  that  the  jewels  that 
glistened     everywhere    on     her    dead    white    flesh 


The  Day  of  Reckon  in g.  339, 

seemed  more  alive  than  she,  as  if  scattered  over 
the  cold  marble  of  a  statue.  The  brcathlessness 
due  to  dancing,  the  trembling  of  intense  excitement 
and  her  rapid  descent,  caused  her  to  shake  from 
head  to  foot,  and  her  floating  ribbons,  her  ruffles, 
her  flowers,  her  rich  and  fashionable  attire  drooped 
tragically  about  her.  Risler  followed  her,  laden 
with  jewel-cases,  caskets  and  papers.  Upon  reach- 
ing his  apartments  he  had  pounced  upon  his  wife's 
desk,  seized  everything  valuable  that  it  contained, 
jewels,  certificates,  title-deeds  of  the  house  at 
Asnieres ;  then,  standing  in  the  doorway,  he  had 
shouted  into  the  ball-room : 

"  Madame  Risler  !  " 

She  had  run  quickly  to  him,  and  that  brief  scene 
had  in  no  wise  disturbed  the  guests,  then  at  the 
height  of  the  evening's  enjoyment.  When  she  saw 
her  husband  standing  in  front  of  the  desk,  the 
drawers  broken  open  and  overturned  on  the  carpet 
with  the  numberless  trifles  they  contained,  she 
realized  that  something  terrible  was  taking  place. 

"  Come  at  once,"  said  Risler,  "  I  know  all." 

She  tried  to  assume  an  innocent,  dignified  atti- 
tude ;  but  he  seized  her  by  the  arm  with  such  force 
that  Frantz's  words  came  to  her  mind :  "  It  will 
kill  him  perhaps,  but  he  will  kill  you  first."  As 
she  was  afraid  of  death,  she  allowed  herself  to  be 
led  away  without  resistance,  and  had  not  even  the 
strength  to  lie. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

Risler   did  not  answer.     She  had  but   time    to 


340  Froniont  and  Risler, 

throw  over  her  shoulders,  with  the  care  for  herself 
that  never  failed  her,  a  light  tulle  veil,  and  he 
dragged  her,  pushed  her  rather,  down  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  counting-room,  which  he  descended 
at  the  same  time,  his  steps  in  hers,  fearing  that  his 
prey  would  escape  him. 

"  There,"  he  said  as  he  entered  the  room.  "  We 
have  stolen,  we  make  restitution.  Look,  Planus, 
you  can  raise  money  with  all  this  stuff."  And  he 
placed  on  the  cashier's  desk  all  the  fashionable 
plunder  with  which  his  arms  were  filled,  feminine 
trinkets,  trivial  aids  to  coquetry,  stamped  papers. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  wife : 

"  Now,  your  jewels.     Come,  be  quick." 

She  complied  slowly,  opened  regretfully  the 
locks  of  bracelets  and  buckles,  and  above  all  the 
superb  clasp  of  her  diamond  necklace  on  which 
the  initial  of  her  name  —  a  gleaming  S  —  resembled 
a  sleeping  serpent,  imprisoned  in  a  circle  of  gold. 
Risler,  thinking  that  she  was  too  slow,  ruthlessly 
broke  the  fragile  fastenings.  Luxury  shrieked 
beneath  his  fingers,  as  if  it  were  being  whipped. 

"  Now,  it's  my  turn,"  he  said,  "  I  too  must  give 
up  everything.  Here  is  my  portfolio.  What  else 
have  I?    What  else  have  I?  " 

He  searched  his  pockets  feverishly. 

"  Ah  !  my  watch.  With  the  chain  it  will  bring 
four  thousand  francs.  My  rings,  my  wedding  ring. 
Everything  goes  into  the  cash-box,  everything. 
We  have  a  hundred  thousand  francs  to  pay  this 
morning.  As  soon  as  it's  daylight  we  must  go  to 
work,  sell  out  and  pay  our  debts.     I  know  some- 


The  Day  of  Reckoning.  341 

one  who  wants  the  house  at  Asniercs.  That  can 
be  arranged  at  once." 

He  alone  talked  and  acted.  Sigismond  and 
Madame  Georges  watched  him  without  speaking. 
As  for  Sidonie,  she  seemed  unconscious,  lifeless. 
The  cold  air  blowing  from  the  garden  through  the 
little  door,  which  was  opened  at  the  time  of  Risler's 
swoon,  made  her  shiver,  and  she  mechanically 
drew  the  folds  of  her  scarf  around  her  shoulders, 
her  e}'es  fixed  on  vacancy,  her  thoughts  wandering. 
Did  she  not  hear  the  violins  of  her  ball,  which 
reached  their  ears  in  the  intervals  of  silence,  like 
bursts  of  savage  irony,  with  the  heavy  thud  of  the 
dancers  shaking  the  floors?  An  iron  hand,  falling 
upon  her,  aroused  her  abruptly  from  her  torpor. 
Risler  had  taken  her  by  the  arm,  and,  leading  her 
before  his  partner's  wife,  he  said  : 

"  Down  on  your  knees." 

Madame  Fromont  drew  back,  remonstrated. 

"  No,  no,  Risler,  not  that." 

"  It  must  be,"  said  the  implacable  Risler.  "  Res- 
titution, reparation.  Down  on  your  knees  then, 
wretched  woman !  "  And  with  irresistible  force 
he  threw  Sidonie  at  Claire's  feet;  then,  still  holding 
her  arm : 

"You  will  repeat  after  me,  word  for  word,  what 
I  am  going  to  say:    Madame,  —  " 

Sidonie,  half  dead  with  fear,  repeated  faintly: 
"  Madame,  —  " 

"A  whole  lifetime  of  humility  and  submission  —  " 

"A  whole  lifetime  of  himiil  -  No,  I  cannot!" 
she  exclaimed,  springing  to  her  feet  with  the  agility 


342  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

of  a  deer ;  and,  wresting  herself  from  Risler's  grasp, 
through  tliat  open  door  which  had  tempted  her 
from  the  beginning  of  this  horrible  scene,  luring 
her  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  night  to  the 
liberty  obtainable  by  flight,  she  rushed  from  the 
house,  braving  the  falling  snow  and  the  wind  that 
stung  her  bare  shoulders. 

"  Stop  her,  stop  her  —  Risler,  Planus,  I  implore 
you.    In  pity's  name  do  not  let  her  go  in  this  way." 

Planus  stepped  toward  the  door. 

Risler  detained  him. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  stir !  I  ask  your  pardon, 
madame,  but  we  have  more  important  matters 
than  this  to  consider.  Madame  Risler  concerns 
us  no  longer.  We  have  to  save  the  honor  of  the 
house  of  Fromont,  which  alone  is  at  stake,  which 
alone  fills  my  thoughts  at  this  moment." 

Sigismond  put  out  his  hand. 

"You  are  a  noble  man,  Risler.  Forgive  me  for 
having  suspected  you." 

Risler  pretended  not  to  hear  him. 

"A  hundred  thousand  francs  to  pay,  you  say? 
How  much  is  there  left  in  the  strong-box?" 

He  sat  gravely  down  behind  the  grating,  looking 
over  the  books  of  account,  the  certificates  of  stock 
in  the  funds,  opening  the  jewel-cases,  estimating 
with  Planus,  whose  father  had  been  a  jeweller,  the 
value  of  all  those  diamonds,  which  he  had  once  so 
admired  on  his  wife,  having  no  suspicion  of  their 
value. 

Meanwhile  Claire,  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
looked  out  through  the  window  at  the  little  garden, 


The  Day  of  Reckoning.  343 

white  with  snow,  where  Sidonie's  footsteps  were 
ah-eady  effaced  by  the  fast-faUinc;  flakes,  as  if  to 
bear  witness  that  that  precipitate  departure  was 
without  hope  of  return. 

Upstairs  they  were  dancing  stiH.  The  mistress  of 
the  house  was  supposed  to  be  busy  with  the  pre- 
parations for  supper,  while  she  was  flying,  bare- 
headed, forcing  back  sobs  and  shrieks  of  rage. 

Where  was  she  going? 

She  had  started  off  hke  a  mad  woman,  running 
across  the  garden  and  the  courtyard  of  the  factory, 
and  under  the  dark  arches,  where  the  cruel,  freez- 
ing wind  blew  in  eddying  circles.  Pere  Achilla 
did  not  recognize  her ;  he  had  seen  so  many 
shadows  wrapped  in  white  pass  his  lodge  that 
night. 

The  young  woman's  first  thought  was  to  join 
the  tenor  Cazaboni,  whom  at  the  last  she  had  not 
dared  to  invite  to  her  ball ;  but  he  lived  at  Mont- 
martre,  and  that  was  very  far  away  in  the  garb  in 
which  she  then  was;  and  then,  would  he  be  at 
home?  Her  parents  would  take  her  in  doubtless; 
but  she  could  alread)'  hear  Madame  Chebe's  lamen- 
tations and  the  little  man's  sermon  untlcr  three 
heads.  Thereupon  she  thought  of  Delobelle,  her 
old  Delobelle.  In  the  downfall  of  all  her  splendors, 
she  remembered  the  man  who  had  first  initiated 
her  into  fashionable  life,  who  had  given  her  lessons 
in  dancing  and  deportment  when  she  was  a  little 
girl,  laughed  at  her  pretty  ways  and  taught  her  to 
look  upon  herself  as  beautiful  before  an}-one  had 
ever  told  her  that  she  was  so.    Something  told  her 


344  Fromoiit  and  Risler. 

that  that  fallen  star  would  take  her  part  against 
all  others.  She  entered  one  of  the  carriages 
standing  at  the  gate  and  ordered  the  driver  to 
take  her  to  the  actor's  lodgings  on  Boulevard 
Beaumarchais. 

For  some  time  past  Mamma  Delobelle  had  been 
making  straw  hats  for  export,  —  a  dismal  trade  if 
ever  there  was  one,  and  one  that  brought  in  barely 
two  francs  fifty  for  twelve  hours'  work. 

And  Delobelle  continued  to  grow  fat  in  the  same 
degree  that  his  "  sainted  wife  "  grew  thin.  At  the 
very  moment  when  some  one  knocked  hurriedly 
at  his  door  he  had  just  discovered  a  fragrant  soup 
an  frontage,  which  had  been  kept  hot  in  the  ashes 
on  the  hearth.  The  actor,  who  had  been  witness- 
ing at  Beaumarchais  some  dark-browed  melodrama 
drenched  with  gore  even  to  the  illustrated  head- 
lines of  its  poster,  was  startled  by  that  knock  at 
such  an  advanced    hour. 

"  Who  is  there?  "  he  asked  in  some  alarm. 

"It's  I,  Sidonie.     Open  the  door  quickly," 

She  entered  the  room,  shivering  all  over,  and, 
throwing  aside  her  wrap,  went  close  to  the  stove 
where  the  fire  was  at  the  point  of  death.  She 
began  to  talk  at  once,  to  pour  out  the  wrath  that 
had  been  stifling  her  for  an  hour,  and  while  she 
was  describing  the  scene  in  the  factory,  lowering 
her  voice  because  of  Madame  Delobelle,  who  was 
asleep  close  by,  the  magnificence  of  her  costume 
in  that  poor,  bare  fifth  floor,  the  glaring  whiteness 
of  her  disordered  finery  amid  the  heaps  of  coarse 
hats    and   the   wisps    of  straw   strewn    about   the 


The  Day  of  Reckoning.  345 

room,  all  combined  to  produce  the  effect  of  a  veri- 
table drama,  of  one  of  those  terrible  upheavals  of 
life  when  ranks,  feelings,  fortunes,  are  suddenly 
jumbled  together. 

"Oh!  I  shall  never  return  home.  It's  all  over. 
Free,  I  am  free  !  " 

"  But  who  could  have  betrayed  you  to  your 
husband?"    asked  the  actor. 

"  It  was  Frantz  !  I  am  sure  it  was  Frantz.  He 
would  n't  have  believed  it  from  anybody  else. 
Only  last  evening  a  letter  came  from  Egypt.  Oh ! 
how  he  treated  me  before  that  woman  !  To  force 
me  to  kneel.  But  I  '11  be  revenged.  Luckily  I 
took  something  to  revenge  myself  with  before  I 
came  away." 

And  her  smile  of  former  days  played  about  the 
corners  of  her  pale  lips. 

The  old  strolling  player  listened  to  it  all  with 
deep  interest.  Notwithstanding  his  compassion 
for  that  poor  devil  of  a  Risler,  and  for  Sidonie  her- 
self for  that  matter,  who  seemed  to  him,  in  theatri- 
cal parlance,  "  a  beautiful  culprit,"  he  could  not 
help  viewing  the  affair  from  a  purely  scenic  stand- 
point, and  finally  cried  out,  carried  away  by  his 
hobby : 

"  What  a  first-class  situation  for  a  fifth  act !  " 

She  did  not  hear  him.  Absorbed  by  some  evil 
thought,  which  made  her  smile  in  anticipation, 
she  stretched  out  her  dainty  shoes  saturated  with 
snow,  and  her  openwork  stockings  to  the  fire. 

"Well,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  now?  "  Delo- 
belle  asked  after  a  moment. 


346  Fromoiit  and  Risler. 

"  Stay  here  till  daylight.  Get  a  little  rest.  Then 
I  will  see." 

"  I  have  no  bed  to  ofifer  you,  my  poor  girl. 
Mamma  Delobelle  has  gone  to  bed." 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  me,  my  dear  Delobelle. 
I  '11  sleep  in  that  armchair.  I  won't  be  in  your 
way,   I  tell  you  !  " 

The  actor  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  Ah !  yes,  that  armchair.  It  was  our  poor 
Zizi's.  She  sat  up  many  a  night  in  it,  when  work 
was  pressing.  Ah  me  !  those  who  leave  this  world 
are  much  the  happiest." 

He  had  always  at  hand  such  selfish,  comforting 
maxims.  He  had  no  sooner  uttered  that  one 
than  he  discovered  with  dismay  that  his  soup 
would  soon  be  stone  cold.  Sidonie  noticed  his 
movement. 

"  Why,  you  were  just  eating  your  supper,  were  n't 
you?     Pray  go  on." 

"  Dame  !  yes,  what  would  you  have?  It 's  part 
of  the  trade,  of  the  hard  existence  we  fellows  live. 
For  you  see,  my  girl,  I  stand  firm.  I  have  n't 
given  up.     I  never  will  give  up." 

What  still  remained  of  Desiree's  soul  in  that 
wretched  household  in  which  she  had  lived  twenty 
years  must  have  shuddered  at  that  terrible  declara- 
tion.    He  never  will  give  up  ! 

"  No  matter  what  people  may  say,"  continued 
Delobelle,  "  it 's  the  noblest  profession  in  the 
world.  You  are  free,  you  depend  upon  nobody. 
Devoted  to  the  service  of  glory  and  the  public  ! 
Ah  !  I  know  what  I  would  do  in  your  place.     As 


The  Day  of  Reckoning.  347 

if  you  were  born  to  live  with  all  those  bourgeois, 
what  the  devil !  What  you  need  is  the  artistic 
life,  the  fever  of  success,  the  unexpected,  intense 
emotion." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  his  scat,  tucked  his  napkin 
in  his  neck  and  helped  himself  to  a  great  plateful 
of  soup. 

"To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  your  triumphs 
as  a  pretty  woman  would  in  no  wise  interfere  with 
your  triumph  as  an  actress.  By  the  way,  do  you 
know,  you  must  take  a  few  lessons  in  elocution. 
With  your  voice,  your  intelligence,  your  charms, 
you  would  have  a  magnificent  prospect." 

Then  he  added  abruptly,  as  if  to  initiate  her 
into  the  joys  of  the  dramatic  art: 

"  But  it  occurs  to  me  that  perhaps  you  have  not 
supped  !  Excitement  makes  one  hollow;  sit  there 
and  take  this  plate.  I  am  sure  that  you  have  n't 
eaten  soup  an  frontage  for  a  long  while." 

He  turned  the  closet  topsy-turvy  to  find  her  a 
spoon  and  napkin  ;  and  she  took  her  scat  opposite 
him,  assisting  him  and  laughing  a  little  at  the  diffi- 
culties attending  her  entertainment.  She  was  less 
pale  already,  and  there  was  a  pretty  sparkle  in  her 
eyes,  composed  of  the  tears  of  a  moment  before 
and  the  present  gayety. 

The  strolling-actress  ! 

All  her  happiness  in  life  was  lost  forever :  honor, 
family,  wealth.  She  was  driven  from  her  house, 
stripped,  dishonored.  She  had  undergone  all  pos- 
sible himiiliations  and  disasters.  That  did  not 
prevent  her  supping  with  a  wonderful  appetite  and 


348  JFromont  and  Rislcr. 

joyously  holding  her  own  under  Delobelle's  jocose 
remarks  concerning  her  vocation  and  her  future 
triumphs.  She  felt  light-hearted  and  happy,  fairly 
embarked  for  the  land  of  Bohemia,  her  true  coun- 
try. What  more  was  going  to  happen  to  her? 
Of  how  many  ups  and  downs  was  her  new,  unfore- 
seen and  whimsical  existence  to  consist?  She  was 
thinking  about  that  as  she  fell  asleep  in  Desiree's 
great  easy-chair;  but  she  was  thinking  of  her 
revenge,  too,  her  cherished  revenge  which  she  held 
in  her  hand,  all  ready  for  use,  and  so  unerring,  so 
fierce ! 


The  New  Clerk.  349 


IV. 

THE   NEW   CLERK   OF    THE   HOUSE    OF   FROMONT. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Fromont  Jcune 
awoke.  All  night  long,  between  the  drama  that 
was  being  enacted  below  him,  and  the  festivity  in 
joyous  progress  above,  he  slept  with  clenched  fists, 
the  deep  sleep  of  utter  prostration  like  that  of  a 
condemned  man  on  the  eve  of  his  execution  or  of 
a  defeated  general  on  the  night  following  his  de- 
feat ;  a  sleep  from  which  one  would  wish  never  to 
awake,  and  in  which  one  has  a  foretaste  of  death  in 
the  absence  of  all  sensation. 

The  bright  light  streaming  through  his  curtains, 
made  more  glaring  by  the  deep  snow  with  which 
the  garden  and  the  surrounding  roofs  were  covered, 
recalled  him  to  the  consciousness  of  things  as  they 
were.  He  felt  a  shock  through  his  whole  being, 
and,  even  before  his  mind  began  to  work,  that 
vague  impression  of  melancholy  which  misfortunes, 
momentarily  forgotten,  leave  in  their  place.  All 
the  familiar  noises  of  the  factory,  the  dull,  panting 
breath  of  the  machinery,  were  in  full  activity.  So 
the  world  still  existed  !  and  by  slow  degrees  the 
idea  of  responsibility  awoke  in  him. 


350  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

"To-day  is  the  day,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  an 
involuntary  movement  toward  the  dark  side  of  the 
room,  as  if  he  longed  to  bury  himself  anew  in  his 
long  sleep. 

The  factory  bell  rang,  then  other  bells  in  the 
neighborhood,  then  the  Angelus. 

"  Noon  !  Already  !     How  I  have  slept !  " 

He  felt  some  little  remorse  and  a  great  sense  of 
relief  at  the  thought  that  the  drama  of  settling-day 
had  passed  off  without  him.  What  had  they 
done  downstairs?     Why  did  they  not  call  him? 

He  rose,  put  aside  the  curtains  and  saw  Risler 
and  Sigismond  talking  together  in  the  garden. 
And  it  was  so  long  since  they  had  spoken  to  each 
other!  What  in  heaven's  name  had  happened? 
When  he  was  ready  to  go  down  he  found  Claire  at 
the  door  of  his  room. 

"You  must  not  go  out,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Stay  here.     I  will  explain  it  to  you." 

"But  what's  the  matter?  Did  anyone  come 
from  the  Bank?  " 

"  Yes,  they  came  —  the  notes  are  paid." 

"Paid?" 

"  Risler  obtained  the  money.  He  has  been 
rushing  about  with  Planus  since  early  morning. 
It  seems  that  his  wife  had  superb  jewels.  The 
diamond  necklace  alone  brought  twenty  thousand 
francs.  He  has  also  sold  their  house  at  Asniercs 
with  all  it  contained ;  but  as  time  was  required  to 
record  the  deed.  Planus  and  his  sister  advanced 
the  money." 


The  New  Clerk.  351 

She  turned  away  from  him  as  slie  spoke.  He, 
on  his  side,  hung  his  head  to  avoid  her  glance. 

"  Risler  is  an  honorable  man,"  she  continued, 
"  and  when  he  learned  from  whom  his  wife  received 
all  her  magnificent  things — ■" 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Georges  in  dismay.  "  He 
knows?  " 

"  All,"  Claire  replied,  lowering  her  voice. 

The  wretched  man  turned  pale,  stammered 
feebly : 

"Why  then  — you?" 

"  Oh  !  I  knew  it  all  before  Risler  did.  Remem- 
ber that,  when  I  came  home  last  night,  I  told  you 
that  I  had  heard  very  cruel  things  down  at  Sa- 
vigny,  and  that  I  would  have  given  ten  years  of 
my  life  not  to  have  made  that  journey." 

"  Claire  !  " 

Moved  by  a  mighty  outburst  of  affection,  he 
stepped  toward  his  wife ;  but  her  face  was  so  cold, 
so  sad,  so  resolute,  her  despair  was  so  plainly 
written  in  the  stern  indifference  manifest  in  her 
whole  bearing,  that  he  dared  not  take  her  to  his 
heart  as  he  longed  to  do,  but  simply  murmured 
under  his  breath : 

"  Forgive  !  —  forgive  !  " 

"  You  must  think  mc  very  calm,"  said  the  brave 
woman  ;  "  but  I  shed  all  my  tears  ycsterda}'.  You 
may  have  thought  that  I  was  weeping  over  our 
ruin;  you  were  mistaken.  WMiilc  one  is  j'oung  and 
strong  as  we  are,  such  cowardly  conduct  is  not 
permissible.  We  are  armed  against  want  and  can 
fight  it  face  to  face.      No,  I  was  weeping  for  our 


352  Fromont  and  Risler. 

departed  happiness,  for  you,  for  the  madness  that 
led  you  to  throw  away  your  only,  your  true  friend." 

She  was  lovely,  lovelier  than  Sidonie  had  ever 
been,  as  she  spoke  thus,  enveloped  by  a  pure  light 
which  seemed  to  fall  upon  her  from  a  great  height, 
like  the  radiance  of  a  fathomless,  cloudless  sky; 
whereas  the  other's  irregular  features  had  always 
seemed  to  owe  their  brilliancy,  their  saucy,  insolent 
charm  to  the  false  glamour  of  the  footlights  in  some 
cheap  theatre.  The  touch  of  statuesque  immobil- 
ity formerly  noticeable  in  Claire's  face  was  vivified 
by  anxiety,  by  doubt,  by  all  the  torture  of  pas- 
sion;  and  like  those  gold  ingots  which  have  their 
full  value  only  when  the  Mint  has  placed  its  stamp 
upon  tliem,  those  beautiful  features  stamped  with 
the  effigy  of  sorrow  had  acquired  since  the  pre- 
ceding day  an  ineffaceable  expression  which  per- 
fected their  beauty. 

Georges  gazed  at  her  in  admiration.  She  seemed 
to  him  more  alive,  more  womanly,  and  worthy  of 
adoration  by  virtue  of  their  separation,  of  all  the 
obstacles  that  he  now  knew  to  stand  between  them. 
Remorse,  despair,  shame  entered  his  heart  simul- 
taneously with  this  new  love,  and  he  would  have 
fallen  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 

"  No,  no,  do  not  kneel,"  said  Claire ;  "  if  you 
knew  what  you  remind  me  of,  if  you  knew  what  a 
lying  face,  distorted  with  hatred,  I  saw  at  my  feet 
last  night !  " 

"  Ah !  but  I  am  not  lying,"  replied  Georges 
with  a  shudder.  "  Claire,  I  implore  you,  in  the 
name  of  our  child  —  " 


The  Nciu  Clerk.  353 

At  that  moment  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Get  up,  pray.  You  see  that  hfe  has  claims 
upon  us,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  a  bitter 
smile ;  then  she  asked  what  was  wanted. 

Monsieur  Risler  had  sent  for  monsieur  to  come 
down  to  the  office. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  ;   "  say  that  he  will  come." 

Georges  stepped  toward  the  door,  but  she 
stopped  him, 

"  No,  let  me  go.     He  must  not  see  you  yet," 

"But—" 

"  I  wish  you  to  stay  here.  You  have  no  idea  of 
the  indignation  and  wrath  of  that  poor  man,  whom 
you  have  deceived.  If  you  had  seen  him  last 
night,  crushing  his  wife's  wrists !  " 

As  she  said  it,  she  looked  him  in  the  face  with 
a  curiosity  most  cruel  to  herself;  but  Georges  did 
not  wince,  and  replied  simply: 

"  My  life  belongs  to  that  man." 

"  It  belongs  to  me,  too ;  and  I  do  not  wish  you 
to  go  down.  There  has  been  scandal  enough  in 
my  father's  house.  Remember  that  the  whole 
factory  is  aware  of  what  is  going  on.  Every  one 
is  watching  us,  spying  upon  us.  It  required  all 
the  authority  of  the  foremen  to  keep  the  men  at 
work  to-day,  to  compel  them  to  keep  their  inquis- 
itive looks  on  their  work." 

"  But  I  shall  seem  to  be  hiding." 

"  And  suppose  it  were  so  !     That  is  just  like  a 

man.     They  do  not  recoil  from  the  worst  crimes : 

betraying   a   wife,    betraying   a    friend;     but    the 

thought  that  they  may  be  accused  of  being  afraid 
23 


354  Fromont  and  Risler. 

touches  them  more  nearly  than  anything.  More- 
over, hsten  to  what  I  say.  Sidonie  has  gone,  she 
has  gone  forever;  and  if  you  leave  this  house  I 
shall  think  that  you  have  gone  to  join  her." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  stay,"  said  Georges.  "  I  will 
do  whatever  you  wish." 

Claire  went  down  into  Planus's  office. 

To  see  Risler  striding  back  and  forth  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back,  as  calm  as  usual,  no  one 
would  ever  have  suspected  all  that  had  taken  place 
in  his  life  since  the  night  before.  As  for  Sigis- 
mond,  he  was  fairly  beaming,  for  he  saw  nothing 
in  it  all  beyond  the  fact  that  the  notes  had  been 
paid  at  maturity,  and  that  the  honor  of  the  firm 
was   safe  and  sound. 

When  Madame  Fromont  appeared,  Risler  smiled 
sadly  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thought  that  you  would  prefer  to  come  down 
in  his  place ;  but  you  are  not  the  one  with  whom 
I  have  to  deal.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I 
should  see  him  and  talk  with  him.  We  have  taken 
care  of  the  notes  that  fell  due. this  morning;  the 
crisis  has  passed ;  but  we  have  to  come  to  an  un- 
derstanding about  many  matters." 

"  Risler,  my  friend,  I  beg  you  to  wait  a  little 
longer." 

"Why,  Madame  Chorche?  there's  not  a  minute 
to  lose.  Oh  !  I  suspect  that  you  are  afraid  I  may 
give  way  to  an  outbreak  of  anger.  Have  no  fear, 
—  let  him  have  no  fear.  You  know  what  I  told 
you,  that  the  honor  of  the  house  of  Fromont  is  to 
be  assured  before  my  own.     I  have  endangered  it 


The  N'czu  Clerk.  355 

by  my  fault.     First  of  all,  I  must  repair  the  evil  I 
have  done,  or  allowed  to  be  done." 

*'  Your  conduct  toward  us  is  worthy  of  all  admi- 
ration, my  good  Risler;   I  know  it  well." 

"  Oh  !  madame,  if  you  could  see  him  !  he  's  a 
saint,"  said  poor  Sigismond,  who,  not  daring  to 
speak  to  his  friend,  was  determined  at  all  events 
to  manifest  his  remorse. 

"But  aren't  you  afraid?"  continued  Claire, 
"  Human  endurance  has  its  limits.  It  may  be  that 
in  presence  of  the  man  who  has  injured  you  so  —  " 

Risler  took  her  hands,  gazed  into  her  eyes  with 
grave  admiration,  and  said  : 

"  You  dear  creature,  who  speak  of  nothing  but 
the  injury  done  to  me  !  Do  you  not  know  that  I 
hate  him  as  bitterly  for  his  falseness  to  you?  But 
nothing  of  that  sort  has  any  existence  for  me  at 
this  moment.  You  see  in  me  simply  a  business 
man  who  wishes  to  have  an  understanding  with  his 
partner  for  the  good  of  the  firm.  So  let  him  come 
down  without  the  slightest  fear,  and  if  you  dread 
an}'  outbreak  on  my  part,  stay  here  with  us.  I 
shall  need  only  to  look  at  my  old  master's  daugh- 
ter to  be  reminded  of  my  promise  and  my  duty." 

"I  trust  you,  my  friend,"  said  Claire;  and  she 
went  up  to  bring  her  husband. 

The  first  minute  of  the  interview  was  terrible. 
Georges  was  deeply  moved,  humiliated,  pale  as 
death.  He  would  have  preferred  a  hundred  times 
over  to  be  looking  into  the  barrel  of  that  man's 
pistol  at  twenty  paces,  awaiting  his  fire,  instead  of 
appearing  before  him    as    an    unpunished  culprit 


35^  Frornont  and  Risler. 

and  being  compelled  to  confine  his  feelings  within 
the  commonplace  limits  of  a  business  conversation. 

Risler  affected  not  to  look  at  him  and  continued 
to  pace  the  floor  as  he  talked : 

"  Our  house  is  passing  through  a  terrible  crisis. 
We  have  averted  the  disaster  for  to-day ;  but  this 
is  not  the  last  of  our  obligations.  That  cursed  in- 
vention has  kept  my  mind  away  from  the  business 
for  a  long  while.  Luckily,  I  am  free  now,  and  able 
to  attend  to  it.  But  you  must  give  your  attention 
to  it  as  well.  The  workmen  and  clerks  have  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  their  employers  to  some 
extent.  Indeed,  they  have  become  extremely 
negligent  and  indifferent.  This  morning,  for  the 
first  time  in  a  year,  they  went  to  work  at  the  proper 
time.  I  expect  that  you  will  make  it  your  business 
to  change  all  that.  As  for  me,  I  am  going  to  work 
at  my  drawings  again.  Our  patterns  are  old- 
fashioned.  We  must  have  new  ones  for  the  new 
machines.  I  have  great  confidence  in  our  presses. 
The  experiments  have  succeeded  beyond  my  hopes. 
We  unquestionably  have  in  them  a  means  of  build- 
ing up  our  business.  I  did  n't  tell  you  sooner 
because  I  wanted  to  surprise  you ;  but  we  have 
no  more  surprises  for  each  other,  have  we, 
Georges?  " 

There  was  such  a  stinging  note  of  irony  in  his 
voice  that  Claire  shuddered,  fearing  an  outbreak; 
but  he  continued,  quite  in  his  natural  manner: 

"Yes.  I  think  I  can  promise  that  in  six  months 
the  Risler  Press  will  begin  to  show  magnificent 
results.     But  those  six  months  will  be  very  hard  to 


The  New  Clerk.  357 

live  through.  We  must  limit  ourselves,  cut  down 
our  expenses,  save  in  every  way  that  we  can.  We 
have  five  draughtsmen  now,  hereafter  we  will  have 
but  two.  I  will  undertake  to  make  the  absence  of 
the  others  of  no  consequence  by  working  nights. 
Furthermore,  beginning  with  this  month,  I  abandon 
my  interest  in  the  firm.  I  will  take  my  salary  as 
foreman  as  before  and  nothing  more," 

Fromont  attempted  to  speak,  but  a  gesture  from 
his  wife  restrained  him  and  Risler  continued  : 

"  I  am  no  longer  your  partner,  Georges.  I  am 
once  more  the  clerk  that  I  should  never  have 
ceased  to  be.  From  this  day  our  partnership 
articles  are  cancelled.  I  insist  upon  it,  you  under- 
stand, I  insist  upon  it.  We  will  remain  in  that 
relation  to  each  other  until  the  house  is  out  of 
difficulty  and  I  can  —  But  what  I  shall  do  then 
concerns  me  alone.  This  is  what  I  wanted  to  say 
to  you,  Georges.  You  must  give  your  attention  to 
the  factory  diligently,  you  must  show  yourself, 
make  it  felt  that  you  are  master  now,  and  I  believe 
there  will  turn  out  to  be,  among  all  our  misfortunes, 
some  that  can  be  retrieved." 

During  the  silence  that  followed,  they  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  in  the  garden,  and  two  great  furni- 
ture vans  stopped  at  the  door, 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Risler,  "  but  I  must 
leave  you  a  moment.  Those  are  the  vans  from  the 
public  auction  rooms ;  they  have  come  to  take 
aw'ay  all  my  furniture  from  upstairs." 

"What!  you  are  going  to  sell  your  furniture 
too?"  asked  Madame  Fromont. 


35^^  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  Certainly  —  to  the  last  piece.  I  am  simply 
giving  it  back  to  the  firm.     It  belongs  to  it." 

"  But  that  is  impossible,"  said  Georges.  "  I  can- 
not allow  that." 

Risler  turned  upon  him  indignantly. 

"What's  that?  What  is  it  that  you  can't 
allow?" 

Claire  checked  him  with  an  imploring  gesture. 

"True  —  true,"  he  muttered;  and  he  hurried 
from  the  room  to  escape  the  sudden  temptation  to 
give  vent  to  all  that  there  was  in  his  heart. 

The  second  floor  was  deserted.  The  servants, 
who  had  been  paid  and  dismissed  in  the  morning, 
had  abandoned  the  apartments  to  the  disorder  of 
the  day  following  a  ball ;  and  they  wore  the  aspect 
peculiar  to  places  where  a  drama  has  been  enacted, 
and  which  are  left  in  suspense,  as  it  were,  between 
the  events  that  have  happened  and  those  that  are 
still  to  happen.  The  open  doors,  the  rugs  lying  in 
heaps  in  the  corners,  the  salvers  laden  with  glasses, 
the  preparations  for  the  supper,  the  table  still  set 
and  untouched,  the  dust  of  the  ball  on  all  the  fur- 
niture, its  odor  mingled  with  the  fumes  of  punch, 
of  withered  flowers,  of  rice  powder  —  all  these 
details  attracted  Risler's  notice  as  he  entered. 

In  the  disordered  salon  the  piano  was  open,  the 
bacchanal  from  OrpJiee  aiix  Enfers  on  the  music- 
shelf,  and  the  gaudy  hangings  surrounding  that 
scene  of  desolation,  the  chairs  overturned,  as  if  in 
fear,  reminded  one  of  the  saloon  of  a  wrecked 
packet-boat,    of  one    of  those    ghostly    nights    of 


The  Nciv  Clerk.  359 

watching  when  one  is  suddenly  informed,  in  the 
midst  of  a  fete  at  sea,  that  the  ship  has  sprung  a 
leak,  that  she  is  taking  in  water  in  every  part. 

They  began  to  remove  the  furniture. 

Risler  watched  the  men  at  work  with  an  indiffer- 
ent air,  as  if  he  were  in  a  stranger's  house.  That 
magnificence  which  had  once  made  him  so  happy 
and  proud,  inspired  in  him  now  an  insurmountable 
disgust.  But,  when  he  entered  his  wife's  bedroom, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  vague  emotion. 

It  was  a  large  room  hung  with  blue  satin  under 
white  lace.  A  veritable  cocotte's  nest.  There 
were  torn  and  rumpled  tulle  ruffles  lying  about, 
bows  and  artificial  flowers.  The  wax  candles 
around  the  mirror  had  burned  down  to  the  end 
and  cracked  the  bobeches;  and  the  bed,  with  its 
lace  flounces  and  valances,  its  great  curtains 
raised  and  drawn  back,  untouched  in  the  general 
confusion,  seemed  like  the  bed  of  a  corpse,  a  state 
bed  on  which  no  one  would  ever  sleep  again. 

Risler's  first  feeling  upon  entering  the  room  was 
one  of  mad  indignation,  a  longing  to  pounce  upon 
the  things  before  him,  to  tear  and  rend  and  shatter 
everything.  Nothing,  you  see,  resembles  a  woman 
so  much  as  her  bedroom.  Even  v/hen  she  is 
absent,  her  image  still  smiles  in  the  mirrors  that 
have  reflected  it.  A  little  something  of  her,  of  her 
favorite  perfume,  remains  in  everything  she  has 
touched.  Her  attitudes  are  reproduced  in  the 
cushions  of  the  couch,  and  one  can  follow  her  go- 
ings and  comings  between  the  mirror  and  the 
toilet  table  among  the  patterns  of  the  carpet.     The 


o 


60.  Fi'omont  and  Rislcr. 


one  thing  above  all  others  in  that  room  that  re- 
called Sidonic  was  an  etagere  covered  with  childish 
toys,  pett}',  trivial  knick-knacks,  microscopic  fans, 
dolls'  tea-sets,  gilded  shoes,  little  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  facing  one  another,  exchanging  cold, 
gleaming  porcelain  glances.  That  etagere  was 
Sidonie's  very  soul,  and  her  thoughts,  always  com- 
monplace, petty,  vain  and  empty,  resembled  those 
gewgaws.  Yes,  in  very  truth,  if  Risler,  while  he 
held  her  in  his  grasp  last  night,  had  in  his  frenzy 
broken  that  fragile  little  head,  a  whole  world  of 
etagere  ornaments  would  have  come  from  it  in 
place  of  a  brain. 

The  poor  man  was  thinking  sadly  of  all  these 
things  amid  the  ringing  of  hammers  and  the  heavy 
footsteps  of  the  furniture-movers,  when  he  heard 
an  interloping,  authoritative  step  behind  him,  and 
Monsieur  Chebe  appeared,  little  Monsieur  Chebe, 
flushed  and  breathless  and  shooting  flames  from  his 
eyes.  He  assumed,  as  always,  a  very  high  tone 
with  his  son-in-law. 

"What  does  this  mean?  What's  this  I  hear? 
Ah!  so  you're  moving,  are  you?" 

"  I  am  not  moving.  Monsieur  Chebe  —  I  am 
selling  out." 

The  little  man  gave  a  leap  like  a  scalded  carp. 

"You  are  selling  out?  What  are  you  selling, 
pray?  " 

"  I  am  selling  everything,"  said  Risler  in  a  hol- 
low voice,  without  even  looking  at  him. 

"  Come,  come,  son-in-law,  be  reasonable.  God 
knows  I  don't  say  that  Sidonie's  conduct —  But,  for 


The  Nczv  Clerk.  361 

my  part,  I  know  nothing  about  it.  I  never  wanted 
to  know  anything.  Only  I  must  remind  you  of 
your  dignity.  People  wash  their  dirty  linen  in 
private,  deuce  take  it !  They  don't  make  spec- 
tacles of  themselves  as  you  've  been  doing  ever 
since  morning.  Just  see  ever}'body  at  the  work- 
shop windows;  and  on  the  porch  too!  Why 
you  're  the  talk  of  the  quarter,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  So  much  the  better.  The  dishonor  was  public, 
the  reparation  must  be  public  too." 

This  apparent  calmness,  this  indifference  to  all 
his  observations,  exasperated  Monsieur  Chebe. 
He  suddenly  changed  his  tactics,  and  adoi)ted,  in 
addressing  his  son-in-law,  the  serious,  peremptory 
tone  which  one  uses  with  children  or  lunatics. 

"Well,  I  say  that  you  haven't  any  right  to  take 
an)-thing  away  from  here.  I  remonstrate  formally, 
with  all  my  strength  as  a  man,  with  all  my  author- 
ity as  a  father.  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  let 
you  drive  my  child  into  the  gutter?  No,  indeed. 
Oh  !  no,  indeed.  Enough  of  such  nonsense  as  that. 
Nothing  more  shall  go  out  of  the  rooms." 

And  Monsieur  Chebe,  having  closed  the  door, 
planted  himself  in  front  of  it  with  an  heroic  gesture. 
Deuce  take  it !  his  own  interest  was  at  stake  in  the 
matter.  The  fact  was  that  when  his  child  was  once 
in  the  gutter  he  ran  great  risk  of  not  ha\ing  a 
feather  bed  to  sleep  on  himself.  He  was  superb 
in  that  attitude  of  an  indignant  father,  but  he  did 
not  keep  it  long.  Two  hands,  two  vises,  seized  his 
wrists,  and  he  founJ  himself  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  leaving  the  doorway  clear  for  the  workmen. 


362  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  Chebe,  my  boy,  just  listen,"  said  Risler,  leaning 
over  him.  "  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  forbearance. 
Since  this  morning  I  have  been  making  superhuman 
efforts  to  restrain  myself,  but  it  would  take  very 
little  now  to  make  my  anger  burst  all  bonds,  and 
w^oe  to  the  man  on  whom  it  falls.  I  am  quite  cap- 
able of  killing  some  one.    Come!    Be  off  at  once  —  " 

There  was  such  an  intonation  in  his  son-in-law's 
voice,  and  the  way  that  son-in-law  shook  him  as  he 
spoke  was  so  eloquent  that  Monsieur  Chebe  was 
fully  convinced.  He  even  stammered  an  apology. 
Certainly  Risler  had  good  reason  for  acting  as  he 
had.  All  honorable  people  would  be  on  his  side. 
And  he  backed  toward  the  door  as  he  spoke. 
When  he  reached  it,  he  inquired  timidly  if  Madame 
Chebe's  little  allowance  would  be  continued. 

"  Yes,"  was  Risler's  reply,  "  but  never  go  beyond 
it,  for  my  position  here  is  not  what  it  was.  I  am 
no  longer  a  partner  in  the  house." 

Monsieur  Chebe  stared  at  him  in  amazement, 
and  assumed  the  idiotic  expression  which  led  many 
people  to  believe  that  the  accident  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him  —  exactly  like  the  Due  d'Orleans's, 
you  know  —  was  not  a  fable  of  his  own  invention ; 
but  he  dared  not  make  the  slightest  observation. 
Surely  some  one  had  changed  his  son-in-law.  Was 
this  really  Risler,  this  species  of  tiger-cat,  who 
bristled  up  at  the  slightest  word  and  talked  of 
nothing  less  than  killing  people? 

He  took  to  his  heels,  recovered  his  self-posses- 
sion at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  walked  acrpss  the 
courtyard  with  the  air  of  a  conqueror. 


The  New  Clerk.  363 

When  all  the  rooms  were  cleared  and  empty, 
Risler  walked  through  them  for  the  last  time,  then 
took  the  key  and  went  down  to  Planus's  office  to 
hand  it  to  Madame  Georges. 

"  You  can  let  the  apartment,"  he  said,  "  it  will 
be  so  much  added  to  the  income  of  the  factory." 

"But  you,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  don't  need  much.  An  iron  bed  up 
under  the  eaves.  That 's  all  a  clerk  wants.  For,  I 
repeat,  I  am  nothing  but  a  clerk  from  this  time  on. 
A  useful  clerk,  by  the  way,  faithful  and  courageous, 
of  whom  you  will  have  no  occasion  to  complain,  I 
promise  you." 

Georges,  who  was  going  over  the  books  with 
Planus,  w'as  so  affected  by  hearing  the  poor  fellow 
talk  in  that  strain  that  he  left  his  seat  precipitate!}'. 
He  was  suffocated  by  his  sobs.  Claire  too  was 
deeply  moved ;  she  went  to  the  new  clerk  of  the 
house  of  Fromont  and  said  to  him  : 

"  Risler,  I  thank  you  in  my  father's  name." 

At  that  moment  Pcrc  Achille  appeared  with  the 
mail. 

Risler  took  the  pile  of  letters,  opened  them 
tranquilly  one  by  one,  and  passed  them  over  to 
Sigismond. 

"  Here  's  an  order  for  Lj'on.  —  Why  was  n't  it 
answered  at  Saint-Eticnnc?  " 

He  plunged  with  all  his  energy  into  these  details, 
and  he  brought  to  them  a  keen  intelligence,  due  to 
the  constant  straining  of  the  mind  toward  peace 
and  forgetfulness. 

Suddenly,  among  those  huge  envelopes,  stamped 


364  Fromont  and  Risler. 

with  the  names  of  business  houses,  the  paper  of 
which  and  the  manner  of  folding  smelt  of  the  office 
and  of  hasty  despatch,  he  discovered  one  smaller 
one,  carefully  sealed,  and  hidden  so  cunningly 
between  the  others  that  at  first  he  did  not  notice  it. 
He  recognized  instantly  that  long,  fine,  firm  writ- 
ing, —  To  Monsieur  Risler —  Personal.  —  It  was 
Sidonie's  writing.  When  he  saw  it  he  felt  the  same 
sensation  he  had  felt  in  the  bedroom  upstairs. 

All  his  love,  all  the  hot  wrath  of  the  betrayed 
husband  poured  back  into  his  heart  with  the  frantic 
force  that  makes  assassins.  What  was  she  writing 
to  him?  what  lie  had  she  invented  now?  He  was 
about  to  open  the  letter ;  then  he  paused.  He 
realized  that,  if  he  should  read  that,  it  would  be  all 
over  with  his  courage ;  so  he  leaned  over  to  the 
old  cashier,  and  said  in  an  undertone : 

"  Sigismond,  old  man,  will  you  do  me  a  favor?" 

"  I  should  think  so  !  "  said  the  worthy  man  en- 
thusiastically. He  was  so  delighted  to  hear  his 
friend  speak  to  him  in  the  kindly  voice  of  the  old 
days. 

"  Here  's  a  letter  someone  has  written  me,  which  I 
don't  wish  to  read  now.  I  am  sure  it  would  inter- 
fere with  my  thinking  and  living.  You  must 
keep  it  for  me,  and  this  with  it." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  package  care- 
fully tied,  and  handed  it  to  him  through  the 
grating. 

"  That  is  all  I  have  left  of  the  past,  all  I  have  left 
of  that  woman.  I  have  determined  not  to  see  her 
nor  anything  that  reminds  me  of  her,  until  my  task 


TJic  New  Clerk.  365 

here  is  concluded,  and  concluded  satisfactorily,  — 
I  need  all  my  intelligence,  }'ou  understand.  You 
will  pay  the  Chebes'  allowance.  If  she  herself 
should  ask  for  anything,  you  will  give  her  what 
she  needs.  But  you  will  never  mention  my  name. 
And  you  will  keep  this  package  safe  for  mc 
until  I  ask  you  for  it." 

Sigismond  locked  the  letter  and  package  in  a 
secret  drawer  of  his  desk  with  other  valuable 
papers.  Risler  returned  at  once  to  his  correspond- 
ence ;  but  all  the  time  he  had  before  his  eyes  the 
slender  English  letters  traced  by  a  little  hand 
which  he  had  so  often  and  so  ardently  pressed  to 
his  heart. 


366  Fromont  and  Risler. 


V. 

THE    CAFfi    CHANTANT, 

What  a  rare,  what  a  conscientious  clerk  did  that 
new  clerk  of  the  house  of  Fromont  prove  to  be  ! 

Every  day  his  lamp  was  the  first  to  be  lighted 
and  the  last  to  disappear  from  the  windows  of  the 
factory.  A  little  room  had  been  arranged  for  him 
under  the  eaves,  exactly  like  the  one  he  had 
formerly  occupied  with  Frantz,  a  veritable  Trappist's 
cell,  furnished  with  an  iron  cot  and  a  white  wooden 
table  that  stood  under  his  brother's  portrait.  He 
led  the  same  busy,  regular,  retired  life  as  in  those 
old  days. 

He  worked  constantly,  and  had  his  meals  brought 
from  the  same  little  creamery.  But  alas  !  the  dis- 
appearance forever  of  youth  and  hope  deprived 
those  memories  of  all  their  charm.  Luckily  he 
still  had  Frantz  and  Madame  Chorche,  the  only 
two  human  beings  of  whom  he  could  think  without 
a  feeling  of  sadness.  Madame  Chorche  was  always 
at  hand,  always  on  the  watch  to  minister  to  his 
comfort,  to  console  him ;  and  Frantz  wrote  to  him 
frequently,  without  ever  mentioning  Sidonie,  by 
the  way.  Risler  supposed  that  some  one  had  written 
him  of  the  disaster  that  had   befallen  him,  and  he 


The  Cafe  CJmpJant.  367 

too  avoided  all  allusion  to  the  subject  in  his  letters. 
"Oh!  when  I  can  send  for  him  to  come  home!  " 
That  was  his  dream,  his  sole  ambition  :  to  rehabi- 
litate the  factory  and  recall  his  brother. 

Meanwhile  the  days  succeeded  one  anoth.er,  al- 
ways the  same  to  him  in  the  restless  activity  of 
business  and  the  hcartrendinc^  solitude  of  his  f^rief. 
Every  morning  he  went  down  and  walked  through 
the  workshops,  where  the  profound  respect  he 
inspired,  his  stern,  silent  countenance  had  re-estab- 
lished the  orderly  conditions  that  had  been  mo- 
mentarily disturbed.  In  the  beginning  there  had 
been  much  gossip,  and  various  explanations  of 
Sidonie's  departure  had  been  put  forward.  Some 
said  that  she  had  fled  with  a  lover,  others  that  Ris- 
ler  had  turned  her  out.  The  one  fact  that  upset 
all  conjectures  was  the  attitude  of  the  two  partners 
toward  each  other,  apparently  as  unconstrained  as 
before.  Sometimes,  however,  when  they  were  talk- 
ing together  in  the  office,  with  no  one  by,  Risler 
w^ould  suddenly  start  convulsively,  as  a  vision  of 
the  crime  passed  before  his  eyes. 

Thereupon  he  would  feel  a  frantic  longing  to 
leap  upon  the  villain,  seize  him  b)"  the  throat, 
strangle  him  without  pity;  but  the  thought  of 
Madame  Chorchc  was  always  there  to  hold  him 
back.  Should  he  be  less  courageous,  less  master 
of  himself  than  that  young  wife?  Neither  Claire 
nor  Fromont  nor  anybody  else  suspected  what  was 
taking  place  within  him.  They  could  barely  de- 
tect a  severity,  an  inflexibility  in  his  conduct, 
which  were    not  habitual  with  him.     Risler  awed 


368  Fromont  and  Rislcr. 

the  workmen  now;  and  those  of  them  upon  whom 
his  white  hair,  whitened  in  one  night,  his  drawn, 
prematurely  old  features  did  not  impose  respect, 
quailed  before  his  strange  glance  —  a  glance  from 
eyes  of  a  bluish-black  like  a  gun-barrel.  Whereas 
he  had  always  been  very  kind  and  affable  with  the 
workmen,  he  had  become  pitilessly  severe  in  regard 
to  the  slightest  infraction  of  the  rules.  One  would 
have  said  that  he  was  taking  vengeance  upon  him- 
self for  some  indulgence  in  the  past,  blind,  culpable 
indulgence,  for  which  he  blamed  himself 

Surely  he  was  a  marvellous  clerk,  was  this  new 
clerk  of  the  house  of  Fromont. 

Thanks  to  him,  the  factory  bell,  notwithstanding 
the  quavering  of  its  old,  cracked  voice,  had  very 
soon  resumed  its  authority ;  and  the  man  who 
guided  the  whole  establishment  denied  himself  the 
slightest  recreation.  Sober  as  an  apprentice,  he 
left  three-fourths  of  his  salary  with  Planus  for  the 
Chebes'  allowance,  but  he  never  asked  any  ques- 
tions about  them.  Punctually  on  the  last  day  of 
the  month  the  little  man  appeared  to  collect  his 
little  income,  stiff  and  majestic  in  his  dealings  with 
Sigismond,  as  became  an  annuitant  on  duty.  Ma- 
dame Chebe  had  tried  to  obtain  an  interview  with 
her  son-in-law,  whom  she  pitied  and  loved ;  but 
the  bare  appearance  of  her  palm-leaf  shawl  on  the 
steps  put  Sidonie's  husband  to  flight. 

In  truth  the  courage  with  which  he  armed  him- 
self was  more  apparent  than  real.  The  memory 
of  his  wife  never  left  him.  What  had  become  of 
her?    What  was  she  doing?    He  was  almost  angry 


77/6   Cafe  Chaiitant.  369 

with  Planus  for  never  mentioning  her.  That  letter 
above  all  things,  that  letter  which  he  had  had  the 
courage  not  to  open,  disturbed  him.  He  thought  of 
it  constantly.  Ah!  if  he  had  dared,  how  he  would 
have  liked  to  ask  Sigismond  for  it ! 

One  day  the  temptation  was  too  strong.  He 
was  alone  in  the  office.  The  old  cashier  had  gone 
out  to  lunch,  leaving  the  key  in  his  drawer,  a  most 
extraordinary  thing.  Risler  could  not  resist.  He 
opened  the  drawer,  lifted  the  papers  and  searched 
for  his  letter.  It  was  not  there.  Sigismond  must 
have  put  it  away  even  more  carefully,  perhaps  with 
a  prevision  of  what  had  actually  happened.  In  his 
heart  Risler  was  not  sorry  for  his  discomfiture ;  for 
he  well  knew  that,  if  he  had  found  the  letter,  it 
would  have  been  the  end  of  the  resigned  and  active 
life  which  he  imposed  upon  himself  with  so  much 
difficulty. 

Through  the  week  it  was  all  very  w^ell.  Exist- 
ence was  endurable,  absorbed  by  the  innumerable 
duties  of  the  factory,  and  so  fatiguing  that,  when 
night  came,  Risler  fell  on  his  bed  like  a  lifeless 
mass.  But  Sunday  was  long  and  painful.  The 
silence  of  the  deserted  yards  and  workshops  opened 
a  far  wider  field  to  his  thoughts.  He  tried  to  work  ; 
but  he  missed  the  encouragement  of  the  others' 
work.  He  alone  was  busy  in  that  great,  empty 
factory  whose  very  breath  was  arrested.  The 
locked  doors,  the  closed  blinds,  the  hoarse  voice 
of  Pere  Achille  playing  with  his  dog  in  the  deserted 
courtyard,  all  spoke  of  solitude.     And  the  quarter 

also  produced  the   same  cftcct.      In   the   streets, 
24 


2,JO:  Fromojit  and  Rislcr. 

which  seemed  wider  because  of  their  emptiness, 
and  where  the  passers-by  were  few  and  silent,  the 
bells  ringing  for  vespers  had  a  melancholy  sound, 
and  sometimes  an  echo  of  the  uproar  of  Paris, 
rumbling  wheels,  a  belated  hand-organ,  the  click 
of  a  toy-peddler's  clappers,  broke  the  silence,  as  if 
to  make  it  even  more  noticeable. 

Risler  would  try  to  invent  new  combinations  of 
flowers  and  leaves,  and  as  he  handled  his  pencil, 
his  thoughts,  not  finding  sufficient  food  there, 
would  escape  him,  would  fly  back  to  his  past  hap- 
piness, to  his  ineradicable  misfortunes,  would  suffer 
martyrdom,  and  then,  on  returning,  would  ask  the 
poor  somnambulist,  still  seated  at  his  table  :  "  What 
have  you  done  in  my  absence  ?  "  Alas  !  he  had 
done  nothing. 

Oh !  the  long,  heartbreaking,  cruel  Sundays ! 
Consider  that  there  was  mingled  with  all  these  per- 
plexities in  his  mind  the  superstitious  reverence  of 
the  common  people  for  holy  days,  for  the  twenty- 
four  hours  of  rest,  wherein  one  recovers  strength 
and  courage.  If  he  had  gone  out,  the  sight  of  a 
workingman  with  his  wife  and  child  would  have 
made  him  weep,  but  his  monkish  seclusion  reserved 
for  him  other  forms  of  suffering,  the  despair  of 
recluses,  their  terrible  outbreaks  of  rebellion  when 
the  god  to  whom  they  have  consecrated  themselves 
does  not  respond  to  their  sacrifices.  Now,  Risler's 
god  was  work,  and  as  he  no  longer  found  comfort 
or  serenity  therein,  he  no  longer  believed  in  it  but 
cursed  it. 

Often  in  those  hours  of  combat  the  door  of  the 


The  Cafe  Chan  taut. 


0/ 


draughting-room  would  open  gently  and  Claire 
Fremont  would  appear.  The  poor  man's  loneli- 
ness throughout  those  long  Sunday  afternoons 
filled  her  with  pity,  and  she  would  come  with  her 
little  girl  to  bear  him  company,  knowing  by  expe- 
rience how  contagious  is  the  sweet  joyousness  of 
children.  The  little  one,  who  could  now  walk 
alone,  would  slip  from  her  mother's  arms  to  run  to 
her  friend.  Rislcr  would  hear  the  little  hurried 
steps.  He  would  feel  the  light  breath  behind  him, 
and  instantly  he  would  be  conscious  of  a  soothing, 
rejuvenating  influence.  She  would  throw  her 
plump  little  arms  around  his  neck  with  affectionate 
warmth,  with  her  artless,  causeless  laugh,  and  a 
kiss  from  her  little  mouth  which  had  never  lied. 
Claire  Fromont,  standing  in  the  doorway,  would 
smile  as  she  looked  at  them. 

"  Risler,  my  friend,"  she  w^ould  say,  "you  must 
come  down  into  the  garden  a  while, — you  work 
too  hard.     You  will  be   sick." 

"  No,  no,  madame,  —  on  the  contrary,  work  is 
what  saves  me.     It  keeps  me  from  thinking." 

Then,  after  a  long  pause,  she  would  continue : 

"  Come,  my  dear  Risler,  you  must  try  to  forget." 

Risler  would  shake  his  head. 

"Forget!  Is  that  possible?  There  are  some 
things  beyond  one's  strength.  A  man  may  forgive, 
but  he  never  forgets." 

The  child  almost  always  succeeded  in  dragging 
him  down  to  the  garden.  Willy-nill)',  he  must 
play  ball  or  in  the  gravel  with  her ;  but  her  play- 
fellow's awkwardness  and  lack  of  enthusiasm  soon 


372  Fromont  and  Risler. 

impressed  the  little  girl.  Then  she  would  become 
very  sedate,  contenting  herself  with  walking  gravely 
between  the  rows  of  box,  with  her  hand  in  her 
friend's.  After  a  moment  Risler  would  entirely 
forget  that  she  was  there ;  but,  although  he  did 
not  realize  it,  the  warmth  of  that  little  hand  in  his 
had  a  magnetic,  softening  effect  upon  his  diseased 
mind. 

A  man  may  forgive,  but  he  never  forgets ! 

Poor  Claire  herself  knew  something  about  it; 
for  she  had  never  forgotten,  notwithstanding  her 
great  courage  and  the  conception  she  had  formed 
of  her  duty.  To  her,  as  to  Risler,  her  environment 
was  a  constant  reminder  of  her  sufferings.  The' 
objects  amid  which  she  lived  pitilessly  reopened 
the  wound  that  was  ready  to  close.  The  staircase, 
the  garden,  the  court-yard,  all  those  witnesses, 
those  dumb  witnesses  of  her  husband's  crime,  as- 
sumed on  certain  days  an  implacable  expression. 
Even  the  care,  the  precautions  her  husband  took 
to  spare  her  painful  reminders,  the  way  in  which 
he  called  attention  to  the  fact  that  he  no  longer 
went  out  in  the  evening,  and  took  pains  to  tell  her 
where  he  had  been  during  the  day,  served  only  to 
remind  her  the  more  forcibly  of  his  wrong-doing. 
Sometimes  she  longed  to  ask  him  to  forbear,  —  to 
say  to  him :  "  Do  not  do  too  much."  Faith  was 
shattered  within  her,  and  the  horrible  agony  of 
the  priest  who  doubts  and  seeks  at  the  same  time 
to  remain  faithful  to  his  vows,  betrayed  itself  in 
her  bitter  smile,  her  cold,  uncomplaining  gentleness. 

Georges  was  wofully  unhappy.      He  loved  his 


The  Cafe  Chan  taut.  272> 

wife  now.  The  nobility  of  her  character  had  van- 
quished him.  There  was  admiration  in  his  love, 
and  —  why  not  say  it?  —  Claire's  sorrow  filled  the 
place  of  the  coquetry  which  was  contrary  to  her 
nature,  and  the  lack  of  which  had  always  been  a 
defect  in  her  husband's  e)'es.  He  was  one  of  that 
strange  type  of  men  who  love  to  make  conquests. 
Sidonie,  capricious  and  cold  as  she  was,  responded 
to  that  whim  of  his  heart.  After  parting  from  her 
with  a  most  tender  farewell,  he  found  her  indiffer- 
ent and  forgetful  the  next  day,  and  that  incessant 
need  of  wooing  her  back  to  him  took  the  place  of 
genuine  passion.  Serenity  in  love  wearied  him  as 
a  voyage  without  storms  wearies  a  sailor.  On  this 
occasion  he  had  been  very  near  shipwreck  with 
his  wife,  and  the  danger  had  not  passed  even  yet. 
He  knew  that  Claire  was  alienated  from  him  and 
entirely  devoted  to  the  child,  —  the  only  link  be- 
tween them  thenceforth.  Their  separation  made 
her  seem  lovelier,  more  desirable,  and  he  put  forth 
all  his  powers  of  fascination  to  recapture  her.  He 
felt  how  hard  a  task  it  would  be,  and  that  he  had 
no  ordinary,  frivolous  heart  to  deal  with.  But  he 
did  not  despair.  Sometimes  a  vague  gleam  in  the 
depths  of  the  mild  and  apparently  impassive  glance 
with  which  she  watched  his  efforts,  bade  him  hope. 
As  for  Sidonie,  he  no  longer  thought  of  her. 
And  let  no  one  be  astonished  at  that  abrupt 
mental  rupture.  Those  two  superficial  beings  had 
nothing  to  attach  them  securely  to  each  other. 
Georges  was  incapable  of  receiving  lasting  impres- 
sions unless  they  were  constantly  renewed  ;   Sidonie, 


374  Fromont  and  Risler. 

for  her  part,  had  no  power  to  inspire  any  noble  or 
durable  sentiment.  It  was  one  of  those  cocotte- 
dandy  intrigues,  compounded  of  vanity,  of  wounded 
self-love,  which  inspire  neither  devotion  nor  con- 
stancy, but  tragic  adventures,  duels,  suicides  which 
are  rarely  fatal,  and  which  end  in  a  radical  cure. 
Perhaps,  if  he  had  seen  her  again,  he  might  have 
had  a  relapse  of  his  disease ;  but  the  hurricane  of 
flight  had  carried  Sidonie  away  so  swiftly  and  so 
far  that  her  return  was  impossible.  At  all  events, 
it  was  a  relief  for  him  to  be  able  to  live  without 
lying;  and  the  new  life  he  was  leading,  a  life  of 
hard  work  and  self-denial,  with  the  goal  of  success 
in  the  distance,  was  not  distasteful  to  him.  Luckily ; 
for  the  courage  and  determination  of  both  partners 
were  none  too  much  to  put  the  house  on  its  feet 
once  more. 

The  poor  house  of  Fromont  was  taking  in  water 
on  all  sides.  So  Pere  Planus  still  had  wretched 
nights,  haunted  by  the  nightmare  of  notes  maturing 
and  the  ominous  vision  of  the  little  blue  man. 
But,  by  dint  of  economy,  they  always  succeeded 
in  paying. 

Soon  four  Risler  presses  were  definitively  set  up 
and  used  in  the  work  of  the  factory.  People  began 
to  take  a  deep  interest  in  them,  in  the  wall-paper 
trade.  Lyons,  Caen,  Rixbeim,  the  great  centres  of 
the  industry,  were  greatly  disturbed  concerning 
that  marvellous  "  rotary  and  dodecagonal "  ma- 
chine. Then  one  fine  day  the  Prochassons  appeared 
and  offered  three  hundred  thousand  francs  simply 
for  an  interest  in  the  patent  rights. 


The  Cafe  Chaniant.  375 

"What  shall  wc  do?"  Fromont  Jciinc  asked 
Risler  Ainc. 

The  latter  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  indif- 
ferent air. 

"  Decide  for  yourself.  It  does  n't  concern  me. 
I  am  only  a  clerk." 

The  words  spoken  coldly,  without  anger,  fell 
heavily  upon  Fromont's  bewildered  joy,  and  re- 
minded him  of  the  gravity  of  a  situation  which  he 
was  always  on  the  point  of  forgetting. 

But,  when  he  was  alone  with  his  dear  Madame 
Chorche,  Risler  advised  her  not  to  accept  the 
Prochassons'  offer. 

"Wait,  —  don't  be  in  a  hurry.  Later  you  will 
get  a  better  price." 

He  spoke  only  of  them  in  that  affair  in  which  his 
share  was  so  glorious.  She  felt  that  he  was  already 
preparing  to  cut  himself  adrift  from  their  future. 

Meanwhile  orders  came  pouring  in,  accumulated 
on  their  hands.  The  quality  of  the  paper,  the 
fall  in  price  because  of  the  improved  methods  of 
manufacture,  made  competition  impossible.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  a  colossal  fortune  was  in  store 
for  the  house  of  Fromont.  The  factory  had  re- 
sumed its  former  flourishing  aspect  and  its  loud, 
business-like  hum.  Intensely  alive  were  all  the 
great  buildings  and  the  hundreds  of  workmen  who 
filled  them.  Perc  Planus  never  raised  his  nose 
from  his  desk ;  you  could  see  him  from  the  little 
garden,  leaning  over  his  great  ledgers,  jotting 
down  in  magnificently  moulded  figures  the  profits 
of  the  Risler  press. 


276  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Risler  still  worked  as  before,  without  change 
or  rest.  The  return  of  prosperity  brought  no 
alteration  in  his  secluded  habits,  and  it  was  from 
the  highest  window  on  the  topmost  floor  of  the 
house  that  he  listened  to  the  ceaseless  roar  of 
his  machines.  He  was  no  less  gloomy,  no  less 
taciturn.  One  day,  however,  it  became  known  at 
the  factory  that  the  press,  a  specimen  of  which  had 
been  sent  to  the  great  Exposition  at  Manchester, 
had  received  the  gold  medal,  whereby  its  success 
was  definitively  established.  Madame  Georges 
called  Risler  into  the  garden  at  the  luncheon  hour, 
wishing  to  be  the  first  to  tell  him  the  good  news. 

For  the  moment  a  proud  smile  relaxed  his  pre- 
maturely old,  gloomy  features.  His  inventor's 
vanity,  his  pride  in  his  renown,  above  all  the  idea 
of  repairing  thus  magnificently  the  wrong  done  to 
the  firm  by  his  wife,  gave  him  a  moment  of  true 
happiness.  He  pressed  Claire's  hands  and  mur- 
mured, as  in  the  old  happy  days : 

"  I  am  very  happy.     I  am  very  happy." 

But  what  a  difference  in  tone  !  He  said  it  with- 
out enthusiasm,  hopelessly,  with  the  satisfaction 
of  a  task  accomplished,  and  nothing  more. 

The  bell  rang  for  the  workmen  to  return  and 
Risler  went  calmly  upstairs  to  resume  his  work 
as  on  other  days. 

In  a  moment  he  came  down  again.  In  spite  of 
all,  that  news  had  excited  him  more  than  he  cared 
to  show.  He  wandered  over  the  garden,  prowled 
around  the  counting-room,  smiling  sadly  at  Pere 
Planus  through  the  window. 


The  Cafe  CJumtaiit.  ^yy 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  the  old  cashier 
wondered.     "  What  does  he  want  of  me?  " 

At  last,  when  night  came  and  it  was  time  to 
close  the  office,  Risler  summoned  courage  to  go 
and  speak  to  him. 

"  Planus,  my  old  friend,  I  would  like  —  " 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I  would  like  you  to  give  me  —  the  letter,  you 
know,  the  little  letter  and  the  package." 

Sigismond  stared  at  him  in  utter  amazement. 
In  his  innocence  he  had  imagined  that  Risler 
never  thought  of  Sidonie,  that  he  had  entirely 
forgotten  her. 

"  What  —  you  want  —  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  look  you,  I  have  well  earned  it,  I  can 
think  of  myself  a  little  now.  I  have  thought 
enough  of  the  others." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Planus.  "Well,  this  is 
what  we  '11  do.  The  letter  and  package  are  at  my 
house  at  Montrouge.  If  you  choose  we  will  go 
and  dine  together  at  the  Palais-Royal,  as  in  the 
good  old  times.  I  will  stand  treat.  We  '11  water 
your  medal  with  a  bottle  of  wine,  something 
choice !  Then  we  '11  go  to  the  house  together. 
You  can  get  your  trinkets,  and  if  it's  too  late  for 
you  to  go  home,  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister, 
shall  make  up  a  bed  for  you,  and  you  shall  pass 
the  night  with  us.  We're  very  comfortable  there 
—  it's  in  the  country.  To-morrow  morning  at 
seven  o'clock  we  '11  come  back  to  the  factory  by 
the  first  omnibus.  Come,  old  fellow,  give  me  this 
pleasure.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  think  you  still 
bear  your  old  Sigismond  a  grudge." 


37S  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Risler  accepted.  He  cared  but  little  about  com- 
memorating his  medal,  but  he  wanted  to  gain  a 
few  hours  in  opening  the  little  letter  he  had  at  last 
earned  the  right  to  read. 

He  must  dress.  That  was  quite  a  serious  matter, 
for  he  had  lived  in  a  workman's  jacket  the  past  six 
months.  And  what  an  event  in  the  factory ! 
Madame  Fromont  was  informed  at  once. 

"Madame,  Madame!  Monsieur  Risler 's  going 
out !  " 

Claire  looked  at  him  from  her  window,  and  that 
tall  body,  bowed  by  sorrow,  leaning  on  Sigismond's 
arm,  aroused  in  her  a  profound,  unusual  emotion 
which  she  remembered  ever  after. 

In  the  street  people  bowed  to  Risler  with  great 
interest.  Even  their  greetings  made  him  warm 
about  the  heart.  He  was  so  in  need  of  kindness  ! 
But  the  noise  of  vehicles  made  him  a  little  dizzy. 

"  My  head  is  spinning,"  he  said  to  Planus. 

"  Lean  hard  on  me,  old  fellow  —  don't  be  afraid." 

And  honest  Planus  drew  himself  up,  escorting 
his  friend  with  the  artless,  unconventional  pride  of 
a  peasant  of  the  South  bearing  aloft  his  village 
saint. 

At  last  they  arrived  at  the  Palais-Royal. 

The  garden  was  full  of  people.  They  had  come 
to  hear  the  music,  and  one  and  all  were  trying  to 
find  seats  amid  clouds  of  dust  and  the  scraping  of 
chairs.  The  two  friends  hurried  into  the  restau- 
rant to  avoid  all  that  turmoil.  They  established 
themselves  in  one  of  the  large  salons  on  the  first 
floor,  from  which  they  could  see  the  green  trees, 


TJie  Cafe  Chan  taut.  379 

the  promcnadcrs,  and  the  water  spurting  from 
the  fountain  between  the  two  melanchol}'  flower- 
gardens.  To  Sigismond  it  was  the  ideal  of  magnifi- 
cence, that  restaurant,  with  gilding  everywhere, 
around  the  mirrors,  in  the  chandelier  and  even  on 
the  figured  wall-paper.  The  white  napkin,  the 
roll,  the  menu  of  a  table  d'hote  dinner  filled  his 
soul  with  joy. 

"We  are  comfortable  here,  are  n't  we?"  he  said 
to  Risler. 

And  he  exclaimed  at  each  of  the  courses  of  that 
banquet  at  two  francs  fifty,  and  insisted  on  filling 
his  friend's  plate. 

"  Eat  that — it's  good." 

The  other,  notwithstanding  his  desire  to  do 
honor  to  the  fete,  seemed  preoccupied  and  kept 
his  eyes  always  out-of-doors. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Sigismond?  "  he  said,  after 
a  pause. 

The  old  cashier,  engrossed  in  his  memories  of 
long  ago,  of  Risler's  first  employment  at  the  factory, 
replied : 

"I  should  think  I  do  remember — listen!  The 
first  time  we  dined  together  at  the  Palais-Royal  was 
in  February,  '46,  the  year  we  put  in  the  planchcs- 
platcs  at  the  factory." 

Risler  shook  his  head. 

"  Oh  !  no  —  I  mean  three  years  ago.  It  was  in 
that  room  just  opposite  that  we  dined  on  that 
memorable  evening." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  great  windows  of  the 
salon  of  Cafe  Vefour,  gleaming  in  the  rays  of  the 


380  Fror.iont  and  Risler. 

setting  sun  like  the  chandeliers  at  a  wedding 
feast. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  true,"  murmured  Sigismond,  abashed. 
What  an  unlucky  idea  of  his  to  bring  his  friend  to 
a  place  that  recalled  such  painful  things  ! 

Risler,  anxious  not  to  cast  a  gloom  upon  their 
banquet,  abruptly  raised  his  glass. 

"  Come  !  here  's  your  health,  my  old  comrade." 

He  tried  to  change  the  subject.  But  a  moment 
later  he  himself  led  the  conversation  back  to  it 
again,  and  asked  Sigismond,  in  an  undertone,  as 
if  he  were  ashamed  : 

"  Have  you  seen  her?  " 

"  Your  wife?     No,  never." 

"  She  has  n't  written  again?  " 

"  No  —  never  again." 

"  But  you  must  have  heard  of  her.  What  has 
she  been  doing  these  six  months?  Does  she  live 
with  her  parents  ?  " 

"No." 

Risler  turned  pale. 

He  hoped  that  Sidonie  would  have  returned  to 
her  mother,  that  she  would  have  worked,  as  he  had 
done,  to  forget  and  atone.  He  had  often  thought 
that  he  would  arrange  his  life  according  to  what  he 
should  learn  of  her  when  he  should  have  the  right 
to  speak  of  her;  and  in  one  of  those  far-off  futures, 
which  have  the  vagueness  of  a  dream,  he  some- 
times fancied  himself  living  in  exile  with  the 
Chebes  in  some  unknown  land,  where  nothing 
would  remind  him  of  his  past  shame.  It  was  not 
a  definite  plan,  to  be  sure ;  but  the  thought  lived 


The  Cafe  Chatitant.  381 

in  the  depths  of  his  mind  like  a  hope,  caused  by 
the  need  that  all  human  creatures  feel  of  finding 
their  lost  happiness. 

"  Is  she  in  Paris?  "  he  asked,  after  a  few  moments* 
reflection. 

"  No.  She  went  away  three  months  ago.  No 
one  knows  where  she  has  gone." 

Sigismond  did  not  add  that  she  had  gone  with 
her  Cazaboni,  whose  name  she  now  bore,  that  they 
were  making  the  circuit  of  the  provincial  cities 
together,  that  her  mother  was  in  despair,  never  saw 
her,  and  heard  of  her  only  through  Delobellc. 
Sigismond  did  not  deem  it  his  duty  to  mention  all 
that,  and  after  his  last  words,  "  She  has  gone 
away,"  he  held  his  peace. 

Risler,  for  his  part,  dared  ask  no  further  questions. 

While  they  sat  there,  facing  each  other,  both 
embarrassed  by  the  long  silence,  the  military  band 
began  to  play  under  the  trees  in  the  garden.  They 
played  one  of  those  Italian  operatic  overtures  which 
seem  to  have  been  written  expressly  for  public 
open-air  resorts ;  the  swiftly-flowing  notes,  as  they 
rise  into  the  air,  blend  with  the  *'  psst !  psst !  "  of 
the  swallows  and  the  silvery  plash  of  the  fountain. 
The  blaring  brass  brings  out  in  bold  relief  the  mild 
warmth  of  the  closing  hours  of  those  summer  days, 
so  long  and  enervating  in  Paris;  it  seems  as  if  one 
could  hear  nothing  else.  The  distant  rumbling  of 
wheels,  the  cries  of  children  playing,  the  footsteps 
of  the  promenaders  are  wafted  away  in  those 
resonant,  gushing,  refreshing  waves  of  melody,  as 
useful  to  the  people  of  Paris  as  the  daily  watering 


382  Fromont  and  Risler. 

of  their  pavements.  On  all  sides  the  faded  flowers, 
the  trees  white  with  dust,  the  faces  made  pale  and 
wan  by  the  heat,  all  the  sorrows,  all  the  miseries 
of  a  great  city,  sitting  dreamily,  with  bowed  head, 
on  the  benches  in  the  garden,  feel  its  comforting, 
refreshing  influence.  The  air  is  stirred,  renewed  by 
those  strains  that  traverse  it,  filling  it  with  harmony. 

Poor  Risler  felt  as  if  the  tension  upon  all  his 
nerves  were  relaxed. 

"  A  little  music  does  one  good,"  he  said,  with 
glistening  eyes.  "  My  heart  is  heavy,  old  fellow," 
he  added,  in  a  lower  tone  ;   "  if  you  knew  —  " 

They  sat  without  speaking,  their  elbows  resting 
on  the  window-sill,  while  their  coffee  was  served. 

Then  the  music  ceased,  the  garden  became 
deserted.  The  light  that  had  loitered  in  the  cor- 
ners crept  upward  to  the  roofs,  cast  its  last  rays 
upon  the  highest  window-panes,  followed  by  the 
birds,  the  swallows,  which  saluted  the  close  of  day 
with  a  farewell  chirp  from  the  gutter  where  they 
were  huddled  together. 

"  Well,  where  shall  we  go  ?  "  said  Planus,  as  they 
left  the  restaurant. 

"  Wherever  you  choose." 

On  the  first  floor  of  a  building  on  Rue  Mont- 
pensier,  close  at  hand,  there  was  a  cafe  cJiantajit, 
to  which  many  people  seemed  to  be  going. 

"Suppose  we  go  up?"  said  Planus,  desirous  of 
banishing  his  friend's  melancholy  at  any  cost,  "  the 
beer  is  excellent." 

Risler  acceded  to  the  suggestion ;  for  six  months 
he  had  not  tasted  beer. 


The  Cafe  Chaiilaut.  t^^t^ 

It  was  a  former  restaurant  transformed  into  a 
concert  hall.  There  were  three  large  rooms, 
separated  by  gilded  pillars,  the  partitions  having 
been  removed ;  the  decoration  was  in  the  Moorish 
style,  bright  red,  pale  blue,  with  little  crescents  and 
turbans  for  ornament. 

Although  it  was  still  early,  the  place  was  full; 
and  even  before  entering  one  had  a  feeling  of 
suffocation,  simply  from  seeing  the  swarms  of 
people  sitting  around  the  tables,  and  at  the  farther 
end,  half-hidden  by  the  rows  of  pillars,  the  white- 
robed  women  crowded  on  a  raised  platform,  in  the 
heat  and  glare  of  the  gas. 

Our  two  friends  had  much  difficulty  in  finding 
seats,  and  had  to  be  content  with  a  place  behind  a 
pillar  from  which  they  could  see  only  half  of  the 
platform,  then  occupied  by  a  superb  monsieur  in 
black  coat  and  yellow  gloves,  curled  and  waxed 
and  oiled,  who  was  singing  in  a  vibrating  voice : 

Mes  beaux  lions  aux  crins  dor^s, 
Du  sang  des  troupeaux  alt^rds, 
Halte  li  !  —  Je  fais  scntinclld  !  i 

The  audience  —  small  tradesmen  of  the  quarter 
with  their  wives  and  daughters  —  seemed  highly 
enthusiastic ;  especially  the  women.  He  repre- 
sented so  perfectly  the  beau  ideal  of  the  shop- 
keeper imagination,  that  magnificent  shepherd  of 
the  desert,  who  talked  to  the  lions  with  such  an  air 

1  My  noble  lions  with  golden  manes 
Who  thirst  for  the  blood  of  my  flocks, 
Stand  back  !  —  I  am  on  sentry-go  I 


384  Fromoiit  and  Risler. 

of  authority  and  tended  his  flocks  in  full  evening 
dress.  And  so,  despite  their  bourgeois  bearing, 
their  modest  costumes  and  their  expressionless 
shopgirl  smiles,  all  those  ladies,  putting  out  their 
little  mouths  toward  the  hook  of  sentiment,  cast 
languishing  glances  upon  the  singer.  It  was  truly 
comical  to  see  that  glance  at  the  platform  suddenly 
change  and  become  contemptuous  and  fierce  as  it 
fell  upon  the  husband,  the  poor  husband  tranquilly 
drinking  a  glass  of  beer  opposite  his  wife :  "  You 
would  never  be  capable  of  doing  sentry  duty  in  the 
very  teeth  of  lions,  and  in  a  black  coat  too,  and 
with  yellow  gloves  !  " 

And  the  husband's  eye  seemed  to  reply : 

"  Ah !  dame,  yes,  he 's  quite  a  buck,  that 
fellow." 

Being  decidedly  indifferent  to  heroism  of  that 
stamp,  Risler  and  Sigismond  were  drinking  their 
beer  without  paying  much  attention  to  the  music, 
when,  at  the  end  of  the  song,  amid  the  applause 
and  yells  and  uproar  that  followed  it,  Pere  Planus 
uttered  an  exclamation : 

"Why,  that's  funny;  one  would  say  —  but  no, 
I  'm  not  mistaken.     It  is  he,  it's  Delobelle  !  " 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  illustrious  actor,  whom  he  had 
discovered  in  the  front  row  near  the  platform.  His 
gray  head  was  turned  partly  away  from  them.  He 
was  leaning  carelessly  against  a  pillar,  hat  in  hand, 
in  his  grand  make-up  as  leading  man :  dazzlingly 
white  linen,  hair  curled  with  the  tongs,  black  coat 
with  a  camellia  in  the  buttonhole  like  the  ribbon 
of  an  order.     He  "lanced  at  the  crowd  from  time 


The  Cafe  Cliajiiant.  385 

to  time  with  a  patronizing  air:  but  his  eyes  were 
most  frequently  turned  toward  the  platform,  with 
encouraging  little  gestures  and  smiles  and  pre- 
tended applause,  addressed  to  some  one  whom 
Pere  Planus  could  not  see  from  his  seat. 

There  was  nothing  very  extraordinary  in  the 
presence  of  the  illustrious  Delobclle  at  a  cafe  con- 
cert, as  he  spent  all  his  evenings  away  from  home ; 
and  yet  the  old  cashier  felt  vaguely  disturbed, 
especially  when  he  discovered  in  the  same  row  a 
blue  cape  and  a  pair  of  steely  eyes.  It  was  Madame 
Dobson,  the  sentimental  singing  teacher.  The 
conjunction  of  those  two  faces  amid  the  pipe-smoke 
and  the  confusion  of  the  crowd,  produced  upon 
Sigismond  the  effect  of  two  ghosts  evoked  by  the 
coincidences  of  a  bad  dream.  He  was  afraid  for 
his  friend,  without  knowing  exactly  why;  and  sud- 
denly it  occurred  to  him  to  take  him  away. 

"  Let 's  go,  Risler.  The  heat  here  is  enough  to 
kill  one." 

Just  as  they  rose  —  for  Risler  was  no  more 
anxious  to  stay  than  to  go  —  the  orchestra,  consist- 
ing of  a  piano  and  several  violins,  struck  up  a 
peculiar  refrain.  There  was  a  flutter  of  curiosity 
throughout  the  room,  and  cries  of  "  Hush  !  hush  ! 
sit  down !  " 

They  were  obliged  to  resume  their  seats.  Risler 
too  was  beginning  to  be  disturbed. 

"  I  know  that  tunc,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Where 
have  I  heard  it? " 

A  thunder  of  applause  and  an  exclamation  from 

Planus  made  him  raise  his  eyes. 
25 


386  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  Come,  come,  let  us  go  out,"  said  the  cashier, 
trying  to  lead  him  away. 

But  it  was  too  late. 

Risler  had  already  seen  his  wife  come  forward  to 
the  front  of  the  platform  and  courtesy  to  the 
audience  with  a  ballet-dancer's  smile. 

She  wore  a  white  dress,  as  on  the  night  of  the 
ball ;  but  her  whole  costume  was  much  less  rich 
and  shockingly  immodest. 

The  dress  was  hardly  caught  at  the  shoulders ; 
her  hair  flew  about  in  a  blonde  mist  over  her  eyes, 
and  about  her  neck  was  a  necklace  of  pearls  too 
large  to  be  real,  spaced  with  bits  of  tinsel.  Delo- 
belle  was  right :  the  Bohemian  life  was  best  suited 
to  her.  Her  beauty  had  gained  an  indefinably  reck- 
less expression,  which  was  its  most  characteristic 
feature,  and  made  her  a  perfect  type  of  the  woman 
who  has  escaped  from  all  restraint,  placed  herself  at 
the  mercy  of  every  accident,  and  is  descending  stage 
by  stage  to  the  lowest  depths  of  the  Parisian  hell, 
from  which  nothing  is  powerful  enough  to  lift  her 
up  and  restore  her  to  the  pure  air  and  the  light. 

And  how  perfectly  at  ease  she  seemed  in  her 
strolling  life  !  With  what  self-possession  she  walked 
to  the  front  of  the  platform !  Ah !  if  she  could 
have  seen  the  desperate,  terrible  glance  fixed  upon 
her  down  there  in  the  hall,  concealed  behind  a 
pillar,  her  smile  would  have  lost  that  equivocal 
placidity,  her  voice  would  have  sought  in  vain 
those  wheedling,  languorous  tones  in  which  she 
warbled  the  only  song  Madame  Dobson  had  ever 
been  able  to  teach  her: 


T/ie  Cafe  Chantant.  2^^"] 

Pauv'  pitit  Mamz'elle  Zizi, 
C'est  ramou,  I'amou  qui  tourne  la  tete  ii  H. 

Risler  had  risen,  in  spite  of  Planus's  efforts. 
"  Sit  down  !  sit  down  !  "  the  people  shouted. 
The  wretched  man  heard  nothing. 
He  was  looking  at  his  wife. 

C'est  I'amou,  I'amou  qui  tourne  la  tete  \  li, 

Sidonie  repeated  affectedly. 

For  a  moment  he  wondered  if  he  should  not 
leap  on  the  platform  and  kill  her.  Red  flames  shot 
before  his  eyes  and  he  was  blinded  with  frenzy  as 
it  were. 

Then,  suddenly,  shame  and  disgust  seized  upon 
him  and  he  rushed  from  the  hall,  overturning  chairs 
and  tables,  pursued  by  the  terror  and  imprecations 
of  all  those  scandalized  bourgeois. 


388  Fromont  and  Risler. 


VI. 

SIDONIE'S    VENGEANCE. 

Never  had  Sigismond  Planus  returned  home  so 
late  without  giving  his  sister  warning,  during  the 
twenty  years  and  more  that  he  had  lived  at  Mont- 
rouge.  Consequently  Mademoiselle  Planus  was 
terribly  worried.  Living  as  she  did  in  community 
of  ideas  and  of  everything  else  with  her  brother, 
having  but  one  mind  for  herself  and  him,  the  old 
maid  had  felt  for  several  months  the  rebound  of  all 
the  old  cashier's  anxiety  and  indignation ;  and  the 
effect  was  still  noticeable  in  her  tendency  to  trem- 
ble and  become  agitated  on  slight  provocation. 
At  the  slightest  tardiness  on  Sigismond's  part,  she 
would  think : 

"Ah!  mon  Dieu!  If  only  nothing  has  happened 
at  the  factory  !  " 

That  is  why,  on  the  evening  in  question,  when 
the  hens  and  chickens  were  all  asleep  on  their 
perches,  and  the  dinner  had  been  removed  un- 
touched, Mademoiselle  Planus  was  sitting  in  the 
little  ground-floor  living-room,  waiting,  in  great 
agitation. 

At  last,  about  eleven  o'clock,  some  one  rang. 
A  timid,  melancholy  ring,  in  no  wise  resembling 
Sigismond's  vigorous  pull. 


Sidonics    Vengeance.  389 

"  Is  it  you,  Monsieur  Planus?  "  queried  the  old 
maid  from  behind  the  door. 

It  was  he ;  but  he  was  not  alone.  A  tall,  bent 
old  man  accompanied  him  and,  as  they  entered, 
bade  her  good-evening  in  a  slow,  hesitating  voice. 
Not  till  then  did  Mademoiselle  Planus  recognize 
Risler  Aine,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  the  days 
of  the  New  Year's  calls,  that  is  to  say,  some  time 
before  the  dramas  at  the  factory.  She  could  hardly 
restrain  an  exclamation  of  pity;  but  the  grave 
taciturnity  of  the  two  men  told  her  that  she  must 
hold  her  peace. 

"  Mademoiselle  Planus,  my  sister,  you  will  put 
clean  sheets  on  my  bed.  Our  friend  Risler  does 
us  the  honor  to  pass  the  night  with  us." 

The  old  maid  hastened  away  to  prepare  the  bed- 
room with  an  almost  affectionate  zeal ;  for,  as  we 
know,  outside  of  "  Monsieur  Planus,  my  brother," 
Risler  was  the  only  man  excepted  from  the  general 
reprobation  in  which  she  enveloped  the  whole  sex. 

Upon  leaving  the  cafe  concert,  Sidonie's  hus- 
band had  had  a  moment  of  frantic  excitement.  He 
leaned  on  Planus's  arm,  every  nerve  in  his  body 
strained  to  the  utmost.  At  that  moment  he  had 
no  thought  of  going  to  Montrouge  to  get  the  letter 
and  the  package. 

"Leave  me  —  go  away,"  he  said  to  Sigismond. 
"I  must  be  alone." 

But  the  other  knew  better  than  to  abandon  him 
thus  to  his  despair.  Unnoticed  by  Risler,  he  led 
him  away  from  the  factory,  and  as  his  affectionate 
heart  suggested  to  the  old  cashier  what  he  had  best 


390  Fromo7it  and  Risler. 

say  to  his  friend,  he  talked  to  him  all  the  time  of 
Frantz,  his  little  Frantz  whom  he  loved  so  dearly. 

"That  was  genuine  afifection,  genuine  and  trust- 
worthy. No  treachery  to  fear  with  such  hearts  as 
that !  " 

While  they  talked  they  left  behind  them  the 
noisy  streets  of  the  centre  of  Paris,  They  walked 
along  the  quays,  skirted  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
plunged  into  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau.  Risler 
followed  where  the  other  led.  Sigismond's  words 
did  him  so  much  good  ! 

In  due  time  they  came  to  the  Bievre,  bordered 
at  that  point  with  tanneries  whose  tall  drying-houses 
with  open  sides  were  outlined  in  blue  against  the 
sky;  and  then  the  ill-defined  plains  of  Montsouris, 
vast  tracts  of  land  scorched  and  stripped  of  vegeta- 
tion by  the  fiery  breath  that  Paris  exhales  around 
its  daily  toil,  like  a  monstrous  dragon,  whose  breath 
of  flame  and  smoke  suffers  no  vegetation  within  its 
range. 

From  Montsouris  to  the  fortifications  of  Mont- 
rouge  is  but  a  step.  When  they  had  reached  that 
point.  Planus  had  no  great  difficulty  in  taking  his 
friend  home  with  him.  He  thought,  and  justly, 
that  his  tranquil  fireside,  the  spectacle  of  a  placid, 
fraternal,  devoted  affection,  would  give  the  wretched 
man's  heart  a  sort  of  foretaste  of  the  happiness  that 
was  in  store  for  him  with  his  brother  Frantz.  And, 
in  truth,  the  charm  of  the  little  household  began  to 
operate  as  soon  as  they  arrived. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  are  right,  old  fellow,"  said  Risler, 
pacing  the  floor  of  the  living-room,  "  I  must  n't 


Sidonies   Vengeance.  39 1 

think  of  that  woman  any  more.  She  's  like  a  dead 
woman  to  me  now.  I  have  nobody  left  in  the 
workl  but  my  little  Frantz ;  I  don't  know  yet 
whether  I  shall  send  for  him  to  come  home  or  go 
out  and  join  him ;  the  one  thing  that 's  certain  is 
that  we  are  going  to  stay  together.  Ah  !  I  longed 
so  to  have  a  son  !  Now  I  have  found  one.  I  want 
no  other.  When  I  think  that  for  a  moment  I  had 
an  idea  of  killing  myself!  Nonsense!  it  would 
make  Madame  What-d'  ye-call  yonder  too  happy. 
On  the  contrary  I  mean  to  live,  to  live  with  my 
Frantz  and  for  him,  and  for  nothing  else." 

"  Bravo  !  "  said  Sigismond,  "  that 's  the  way  I 
want  to  hear  you  talk." 

At  that  moment  Mademoiselle  Planus  came  to 
say  that  the  room  was  ready. 

Risler  apologized  for  the  trouble  he  was  causing 
them. 

"You  are  so  comfortable,  so  happy  here. 
Really  it's  too  bad  to  burden  you  with  my 
melancholy." 

"Ah!  my  old  friend,  you  can  arrange  just  such 
happiness  as  ours  for  yourself,"  said  honest  Sigis- 
mond with  beaming  face.  "  I  have  my  sister,  you 
have  your  brother.     What  do  we  lack?  " 

Risler  smiled  vaguely.  He  fancied  himself  al- 
ready installed  with  Frantz  in  a  quiet  little  qiiaker- 
ish  house  like  that. 

Decidedly  that  was  an  excellent  idea  of  Pere 
Planus. 

"  Come  to  bed,"  he  said  triumphantly.  "  We  '11 
go  and  show  you  your  room." 


392  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Sigismond  Planus's  bedroom  was  on  the  ground- 
floor,  a  large  room  simply  but  neatly  furnished, 
with  cottonade  curtains  at  the  windows  and  the 
bed,  and  little  squares  of  carpet  on  the  polished 
floor,  in  front  of  the  chairs.  The  dowager  Madame 
Fromont  herself  could  have  found  nothing  to  say 
as  to  the  orderly  and  cleanly  aspect  of  the  place. 
On  a  shelf  or  two  against  the  wall  were  a  few 
books :  Manual  of  Fishing,  The  Perfect  Coimtry 
Housewife,  Bareme's  Book-keeping.  That  was 
the  whole  of  the  intellectual  equipment  of  the 
room. 

Pere  Planus  glanced  proudly  around.  The  glass 
of  water  was  in  its  place  on  the  walnut  table,  the 
box  of  razors  on  the  dressing-case. 

"You  see,  Risler.  Here's  everything  you  need. 
And  if  you  should  want  anything  else,  the  keys  are 
in  all  the  drawers  —  you  have  only  to  turn  them. 
Just  see  what  a  beautiful  view  you  get  from  here. 
It  *s  a  little  dark  just  now,  but  when  you  wake  up 
in  the  morning,  you  '11  see  ;   it 's  magnificent." 

He  opened  the  window.  Great  drops  of  rain 
were  beginning  to  fall,  and  lightning  flashes  rend- 
ing the  darkness  disclosed  the  long  silent  line  of  the 
fortifications,  with  telegraph  poles  at  intervals,  or 
the  frowning  door  of  a  casemate.  Now  and  then 
the  footsteps  of  a  patrol  making  the  rounds,  the 
clash  of  muskets  or  swords,  reminded  them  that 
they  were  within  the  military  zone. 

That  was  the  outlook  so  vaunted  by  Planus,  —  a 
melancholy  outlook  if  ever  there  were  one. 

**  And  now  good-night.     Sleep  well." 


Sidoiiics    Vengeance.  393 

But,  as  the  old  cashier  was  leaving  the  room,  his 
friend  called  him  back : 

"  Sigismond." 

"  Here  !  "  said  the  goodman,  and  he  waited. 

Risler  blushed  slightly  and  moved  his  lips  like  a 
man  who  is  about  to  speak ;  then,  with  a  mighty 
effort,  he  said : 

"No,  no  —  nothing.     Good-night,  old  man." 

In  the  dining-room  the  brother  and  sister  talked 
together  a  long  while  in  low  tones.  Planus  de- 
scribed the  terrible  occurrence  of  the  evening,  the 
meeting  with  Sidonie;  and  you  can  imagine  the 
"  Oh  !  these  women  !  "  and  "  Oh  !  these  men  !  "  At 
last,  when  they  had  locked  the  little  garden  door, 
Mademoiselle  Planus  went  up  to  her  room,  and 
Sigismond  made  himself  as  comfortable  as  possible 
in  a  small  cabinet  adjoining. 

About  midnight  the  cashier  was  aroused  by  his 
sister  calling  him  in  a  terrified  whisper: 

"  Monsieur  Planus,  my  brother?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Did  you  hear?" 

"No.    What?" 

"  Oh  !  it  was  awful.  Something  like  a  deep 
sigh,  but  so  loud  and  so  sad  !  It  came  from  the 
room  below." 

They  listened.  Without,  the  rain  was  falling  in 
torrents,  with  the  dreary  rustling  of  leaves  that 
makes  the  country  seem  so  lonely  and  so  vast. 

"  It's  the  wind,"  said  Planus. 

"  I  am  sure  not.     Hush  !     Listen  !  " 

Amid  the  tumult  of  the  storm,  they  heard  a  wail- 


394  Fromo7it  and  Risler. 

ing  sound,  like  a  sob,  in  which  a  name  was  pro- 
nounced with  difficulty : 

"  Frantz  !  Frantz  !  " 

It  was  horrible  and  pitiful. 

When  the  Christ  on  the  Cross  sent  up  to  heaven 
through  the  empty  void  his  despairing  cry :  Eli, 
eli,  lama  sabachthani,  they  who  heard  him  must 
have  felt  the  same  species  of  superstitious  terror 
that  suddenly  seized  upon  Mademoiselle  Planus. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  whispered  ;  "  suppose  you 
go  and  look  —  " 

"No,  no,  let  us  let  him  alone.  He  is  thinking 
of  his  brother.  Poor  fellow !  It 's  the  very 
thought  of  all  others  that  will  do  him  the  most 
good." 

And  the  old  cashier  went  to  sleep  again. 

The  next  morning  he  woke  as  usual  when  the 
drums  beat  the  reveille  in  the  fortifications ;  for  the 
little  family,  surrounded  by  barracks,  regulated  its 
life  by  the  military  calls.  The  sister  had  already 
risen  and  was  feeding  the  hens.  When  she  saw 
Sigismond  she  came  to  him  in  some  agitation. 

"It's  very  strange,"  she  said,  "I  hear  nothing 
stirring  in  Monsieur  Risler's  room.  But  the  win- 
dow is  wide  open." 

Sigismond,  greatly  surprised,  went  and  knocked 
at  his  friend's  door. 

"Risler!   Risler!" 

He  called  in  great  anxiety : 

"Risler,  are  you  there?     Are  you  asleep?" 

There  was  no  reply.     He  opened  the  door. 

The  room  was  cold.     It  was  evident  that  the 


Sidonies   Vengeance.  395 

damp  air  had  been  blowing  in  all  ni^ht  throii;;h 
the  open  window.  At  the  first  glance  he  cast  at 
the  bed,  Sigismond  thought:  "  He  hasn't  been  to 
bed  "  —  for  the  clothes  were  undisturbed  and  the 
condition  of  the  room,  even  in  the  most  trivial 
details,  revealed  an  agitated  vigil :  the  still  smok- 
ing lamp,  which  he  had  neglected  to  extinguish, 
the  carafe,  drained  to  the  last  drop  by  the  fever  of 
insomnia;  but  the  thing  that  filled  the  cashier  with 
dismay  was  to  find  the  commode  drawer  wide  open 
in  which  he  had  carefully  bestowed  the  letter  and 
package  intrusted  to  him  by  his  friend. 

The  letter  was  no  longer  there.  The  package 
lay  on  the  table,  open,  revealing  a  photograph  of 
Sidonie  at  fifteen.  With  her  high-necked  dress,  her 
rebellious  hair  parted  over  the  forehead,  the  em- 
barrassed pose  of  a  gawky  girl,  the  little  Chcbe  of 
the  old  days,  Mademoiselle  Le  Mire's  apprentice, 
bore  little  resemblance  to  the  Sidonie  of  to-day. 
And  that  was  why  Risler  had  kept  that  photograph, 
as  a  souvenir,  not  of  his  wife,  but  of  the  "  little 
one." 

Sigismond  was  in  dire  dismay. 

"It's  my  fault,"  he  said  to  himself  "I  ought 
to  have  taken  away  the  keys.  Hut  who  would  have 
supposed  that  he  was  still  thinking  of  her?  —  He 
had  sworn  so  many  times  that  that  woman  no 
longer  existed  for  him." 

At  that  moment  Mademoiselle  Planus  entered 
the  room  with  consternation  written  on  her  face. 

"  Monsieur  Risler  has  gone."  she  exclaimed. 

"  Gone?    Why,  was  n't  the  garden  gate  locked?  " 


396  Fromont  and  Risler. 

"  He  climbed  over  the  wall.  You  can  see  his 
footprints." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  terrified  beyond 
measure. 

"  It  was  the  letter  !  "  thought  Planus. 

Evidently  that  letter  from  his  wife  must  have 
made  some  extraordinary  revelation  to  Risler ; 
and,  in  order  not  to  disturb  his  hosts,  he  had  made 
his  escape  noiselessly  through  the  window  like  a 
burglar.     Why?     With  what  end  in  view? 

"  You  will  see,  sister,"  said  poor  Planus,  as 
he  dressed  himself  with  all  haste,  "you  will  see 
that  that  hussy  has  played  him  still  another  trick." 
And  when  the  old  maid  tried  to  encourage  him, 
the  goodman  recurred  to  his  favorite  refrain : 

"  /  haf  710  gonjidcnce  !  " 

As  soon  as  he  was  dressed,  he  darted  out  of  the 
house. 

Risler's  footprints  could  be  distinguished  on  the 
rain-soaked  ground  as  far  as  the  gate  of  the  little 
garden.  He  must  have  gone  before  daybreak,  for 
the  squares  of  vegetables  and  the  flower-beds  were 
trampled  down  at  random  by  deep  footprints  with 
long  spaces  between ;  there  were  marks  of  heels 
on  the  garden-wall  and  the  mortar  was  crumbled 
slightly  on  top.  The  brother  and  sister  went  out 
on  the  road  skirting  the  fortifications.  There  it 
was  impossible  to  follow  the  footprints.  They 
could  tell  nothing  more  than  that  Risler  had  gone 
in  the  direction  of  the  Orleans  road. 

"  After  all,"  Mademoiselle  Planus  ventured  to 
say,  "  we  are  very  good  to  torment  ourselves  about 


Sidonies    Vengeance.  397 

him ;  perhaps  he  has  simply  gone  back  to  the 
factory." 

Sigismond  shook  his  head.  Ah  !  if  he  had  said 
all  that  he  thought ! 

"  You  go  back  to  the  house,  sister.  I  will  go 
and  see." 

And  the  old  "  I  kaf  710  gojijidcncc"  started  off 
like  a  hurricane,  his  white  mane  standing  even 
more  erect  than  usual. 

At  that  hour,  on  the  road  skirting  the  fortifica- 
tions, there  was  an  endless  procession  of  soldiers 
and  market-gardeners,  guard-mounting,  officers' 
horses  out  for  exercise,  sutlers  with  their  parapher- 
nalia, all  the  bustle  and  activity  that  is  seen  in  the 
morning  in  the  neighborhood  of  forts.  Planus  was 
striding  along  amid  the  tumult,  when  suddenly  he 
stopped.  At  the  foot  of  the  bank,  on  the  left,  in 
front  of  a  small  square  building,  with  the  inscription : 

CITY   OF   PARIS, 

ENTRANCE   TO   THE   QUARRIES, 

on  the  rough  plaster,  he  saw  a  crowd  assembled, 
and  soldiers'  and  custom-house  officers'  uniforms, 
mingled  with  the  shabby,  dirty  blouses  of  barrier- 
loafers.  The  old  man  instinctively  approached. 
A  customs  officer,  seated  on  the  stone  step  below 
a  round  postern  with  iron  bars,  was  talking  with 
many  gestures,  as  if  he  were  acting  out  his  narrative. 
"  He  was  where  I  am,"  he  said.  "  He  had 
hanged  himself  sitting,  by  pulling  with  all  his 
strength  on  the  cord  !     It 's  plain  that  he  had  made 


398  Fromont  and  Risler. 

up  his  mind  to  die,  for  he  had  a  razor  in  his  pocket 
that  he  'd  have  used  in  case  the  cord  had  broken." 

A  voice  in  the  crowd  exclaimed  :  "  Poor  devil !  " 
Then  another,  a  tremulous  voice,  choking  with 
emotion,  asked    timidly : 

"  Is  it  quite  certain  that  he  's  dead?  " 

Everybody  looked  at  Planus  and  began  to  laugh. 

"  Well,  here 's  a  greenhorn,"  said  the  officer. 
"  Don't  I  tell  you  that  he  was  all  blue  this  morning, 
when  we  cut  him  down  to  take  him  to  the  Chas- 
seurs' barracks  !  " 

The  barracks  were  not  far  away ;  and  yet  Sigis- 
mond  Planus  had  all  the  difficulty  in  the  world  in 
dragging  himself  so  far.  In  vain  did  he  say  to 
himself  that  suicides  are  of  frequent  occurrence  in 
Paris,  especially  in  those  regions ;  that  not  a  day 
passes  that  a  dead  body  is  not  found  somewhere 
along  that  long  line  of  fortifications,  as  upon  the 
shores  of  a  tempestuous  sea,  —  he  could  not  escape 
the  horrible  presentiment  that  had  oppressed  his 
heart  since  early  morning. 

"  Ah  !  you  have  come  to  see  the  man  that  hanged 
himself,"  said  the  quartermaster-sergeant  at  the 
door  of  the  barracks.     "  See  !  there  he  is." 

The  body  had  been  laid  on  a  table  supported  by 
trestles  in  a  sort  of  shed.  A  cavalry  cloak  that 
had  been  thrown  over  it  covered  it  from  head  to 
foot,  and  fell  in  the  shroud-like  folds  which  all 
things  assume  that  come  in  contact  with  the  rigidity 
of  death.  A  group  of  officers  and  several  soldiers 
in  duck  trousers  were  looking  on  at  a  distance, 
talking  in  whispers  as  in  a  church ;  and  an  assistant- 


Sidoiiics    Vengeance.  399 

surgeon  was  writing  a  report  of  the  death  on  the 
sill  of  a  high  window.  To  him  Sigismond  ad- 
dressed himself. 

"  I  would  like  very  much  to  see  him,"  he  said 
softly. 

"  Go  and  look." 

He   walked   to    the    table,    hesitated    a    minute, 
then,   summoning   courage,    uncovered    a    swollen ' 
face,    a   tall,   motionless   body   in    its    rain-soaked 
garments. 

*'  She  has  killed  you  at  last,  my  old  comrade," 
murmured  Planus,  and  fell  on  his  knees,  sobbing 
bitterly. 

The  officers  had  come  forward,  gazing  curiously 
at  the  body,  which  was  left  uncovered. 

"Look,  surgeon,"  said  one  of  them.  "  His  hand 
is  closed,  as  if  he  were  holding  something  in  it." 

"That  is  so,"  the  surgeon  replied,  drawing 
nearer.  "  That  sometimes  happens  in  the  last 
convulsions.  You  remember  at  Solferino,  Com- 
mandant Bordy  held  his  little  daughter's  miniature 
in  his  hand  like  that?  We  had  much  difficulty  in 
taking  it  from  him." 

As  he  spoke  he  tried  to  open  the  poor,  tightly- 
closed  dead  hand. 

"  Look  !  "  said  he,  "  it 's  a  letter  that  he  is  hold- 
ing so  tight." 

He  was  about  to  read  it ;  but  one  of  the  officers 
took  it  from  his  hands  and  passed  it  to  Sigismond, 
who  was  still  kneeling. 

"  Here,  monsieur.  Perhaps  you  will  find  in  this 
some  last  wish  to  be  carried  out." 


400  Fromont  and  Risler. 

Sigismond  Planus  rose.  As  the  room  was  dark, 
he  walked  with  faltering  step  to  the  window,  and 
read,  his  eyes  dimmed  by  tears: 

"  Well,  yes,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  more  than 
ever  and  forever !  What  is  the  use  of  struggling 
and  fighting  against  fate?  Our  crime  is  stronger 
than  we  are.  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  letter  which  Frantz  had  written  to  his 
sister-in-law  a  year  before,  and  which  Sidonie  had 
sent  to  her  husband  on  the  day  following  their 
scene,  to  revenge  herself  on  him  and  his  brother 
at  the  same  time. 

Risler  could  have  survived  his  wife's  treachery, 
but  his  brother's  treachery  had  killed  him  on  the 
spot. 

When  Sigismond  understood,  he  was  petrified 
with  horror.  He  stood  there,  with  the  letter  in 
his  hand,  gazing  mechanically  through  the  open 
window. 

The  clock  struck  six. 

Yonder,  over  Paris,  whose  muffled  roar  they 
could  hear  although  they  could  not  see  the  city,  a 
cloud  of  smoke  arose,  heavy  and  hot,  moving  slowly 
upward,  with  a  fringe  of  red  and  black  around  its 
edges,  like  the  powder-smoke  on  a  field  of  battle. 
Little  by  little,  steeples,  white  buildings,  a  gilded 
cupola,  shook  themselves  clear  of  the  mist,  and 
burst  forth  in  a  splendid  awakening.  Then  the 
thousands  of  tall  factory  chimneys,  towering  above 
that  sea  of  clustered  roofs,  began  with  one  accord 
to  breathe  forth  their  quivering  vapor,  with  the 
energy  of  a  steamer  about  to  sail.     Life  was  be- 


Sidonies    Vengeance.  40 1 

ginning  anew.  Forward,  ye  wheels!  And  so 
much  the  worse  for  him  who  lags  behind  ! 

Thereupon  old  Planus  gave  way  to  a  terrible 
outburst  of  wrath. 

"Ah!  harlot  —  harlot!"  he  cried,  shaking  his 
fist;  and  no  one  could  say  whether  he  was  ad- 
dressing the  woman  or  the  city. 


26 


"^i^°^S\iS      \  \1\  11  11 

*AA    000  931  "33V"  7 


